


Nepenthe

by Faerieoftara, opalescentgold



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 00 Agent Q, Alternate Universe - Canon, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Espionage, M/M, Mission Fic, Post-Quantum of Solace, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13257465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerieoftara/pseuds/Faerieoftara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold
Summary: After Quantum and Bolivia andVesper, James Bond is in no mood for anything, least of all his new and inexperienced partner, 004.004, who also goes by the name of Q, predictably hates him right back.Too bad they're stuck on a mission together for the next few months. If their enemies don’t manage to kill them first, they may as well just go ahead and kill each other to save them the trouble.





	1. quid pro quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _something for something, this for that, a favour for a favour._

M doesn’t believe in regret. It’s deeply unprofessional, and regret changes absolutely nothing. There’s no _point_ to it, and M does nothing without a point.

Regardless, when she finds herself sitting in her office at eight in the morning, tea already cold, two Double-Ohs in front of her and a mission that promises to be a headache and a half lurking in her computer, M very nearly regrets taking the job when it was offered to her.

004 sits in the chair to the left, dressed in a deceptively casual cardigan and black trousers. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, every centimetre the gracefully controlled cybergenius already starting to become known for catastrophe as precise and fine as a high powered laser.

007 lounges in the chair to the right, the one ‘conveniently’ closest to the door. He’s the picture of insolence in one of his expensive grey suits, infuriating smirk firmly in place. Try as he might, it’s not enough to distract from the lethal cold that continues to smoulder in his eyes.

Not for the first time, M curses Vesper Lynd to the ninth level of hell. There’s learning to be suspicious of the world and then there’s wanting to burn that same world down and spit on the ashes. Double-Ohs of the former category are useful. Double-Ohs of the latter category are a liability, and James bloody Bond is straddling the line with all of the recklessness and defiance he’s been treating his own life with ever since Quantum, a whole _four months ago_.

Looking at her agents, one young but sharp and clever, the other jaded but charming and skilled, both broadcasting harmless body language and both clearly ready to go for the letter opener on her desk at the slightest provocation, M presses her lips together.

She can already see disaster looming on the horizon but the head of MI6’s duty is to make the hard decisions.

“You can introduce yourselves to each other later,” M says, “if no one did their homework.” She slides across her desk a blurry picture of a man with greying hair and hazel eyes. “This is Clodius, our one and only and latest lead on Pluto. He was spotted in Tokyo two days ago.”

“Pluto?” 004 frowns slightly, leaning forward the barest fraction. “The international smuggling ring gone viral?”

There’s absolutely no reason for 004 to know this, but M doesn’t reprimand him. He was promoted for his initiative and cunning, after all. She’ll still flay him alive if he shows any signs of delving deeper into classified information than acceptable.

“Yes,” she says. “Unfortunately, while Pluto has never been directly hostile to us, what few business transactions we’ve been able to track down have shown that they have no compunctions against working with terrorists and our proven enemies.”

“That’s always been the case,” 004 points out while 007 silently observes them both with the unnerving indifference of a falcon on the hunt. “What’s changed?”

“As of two weeks ago, we received official confirmation that they’re planning to extend their business into England.” M folds her hands together, eyes flashing. “And not only that - there’s evidence that Pluto is supplying Quantum.”

007 is far too good of an agent to give off any visible tell, even under her close scrutiny and unquestionably 004’s as well, but she is certain that she is holding every ounce of his resentful attention for the first time since he stepped into the room.

Good.

“So. Listen closely because I’m only going to say this once.” M lifts her chin, fixing a demanding gaze on her best and worst behaved agents. “004, 007, your mission is to dismantle every root and tendril of Pluto by whatever means necessary.”

“And the plants they’ve already snuck inside the country?” 007 questions idly, stretching out his legs before him in a stereotypical alpha male move to take up more space than necessary.

M has long grown immune to such schemes and only smiles with all of the venom in her cold heart. Across from her, 004 shifts uneasily while 007 goes motionless. She isn’t known as the Dragon of MI6 for nothing. “MI5 will take care of it or they’ll _also_ be answering to me.”

A glance at the clock on the wall draws the briefing to a close. “I have to go meet with politicians who know nothing about information gathering but want to stick their noses in our business anyway,” she says sharply, standing up. “Tanner will be here shortly with more details, and Boothroyd is ready for you. Do _not_ disappoint me.”

Having risen out of their seats with her, 004 and 007 reply in unison, “Yes, ma’am.” Then, they flick stinging looks at each other like the bloody children all the Double-Ohs like to pretend that they’re not.

M humphs and reaches for the door handle. “Good luck,” she throws over her shoulder, “and know that I expect either two agents back or none at all. Should there be a lone survivor, that’ll be three weeks off-duty and fifteen mandatory sessions with Psych. Do keep that in mind.”

The click of the door behind her is final and satisfying. Nodding to herself, M sets off to try to do away with some of the stupid in the world. It’s a thankless and endless task, but somebody’s got to do it.

* * *

The silence that falls in M’s wake is strained. 007 and 004 sit back down, supposedly looking straight ahead at the wall behind M’s office desk while simultaneously sizing each other up from the corners of their eyes.

Bond doesn’t know about 004 but he _has_ done his homework. Since Double-Ohs are often short-lived, their lives are the most popular gossip, and 007 knows better than to be uninformed. His enemies are dangerous, and his colleagues have the potential to be even more so.

_“You don't trust anyone, do you, James?”_

The newest addition to their group of elite, cold-blooded killers is young, professional, obedient, and gorgeous, or so the rumours claim. Bond almost wishes they were exaggerating because right here, right now, he can verify that they _weren’t._ Exaggerating. Any of it.

Christ, what is this inexperienced, wet-behind-the-ears boy _doing_ here? Bond is in no mood to babysit a sorely-bullied geek from grad, ever so breakable and liable to crumble into pieces at the first bomb.

M should have chosen 002 if she wanted someone to hold this kitten’s hand and play nice.

“First time to Tokyo?” 007 asks, breaking the stalemate without betraying an ounce of the irritation thrumming beneath his skin. “Great skyline, respectful culture, cheap cream for spots. If you need any.”

To his credit, 004 doesn’t miss a beat, chin tilted at an angle that’s neither submissive nor challenging, voice posh and cool. “No, actually. Did a bit of a stint there twelve years ago. They also have anti-wrinkle cream. If you’re interested.”

“Never heard any complaints.” In fact, according to one woman, if all that was left of him was his smile and little finger -

Bond stares hard at the dark curl obscuring 004’s right ear. “And I’m not sure I would count being shut up in one of those skyscrapers for days on end as a valid trip. The fun happens in the alleys.”

“I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey in one of those skyscrapers than you can do in a month in those alleys.” 004 smiles, darkly enigmatic, tone exquisitely polite.

Bond’s fingers twitch, his irritation spiking into fury for one brief moment before he wrestles it down. “Youth is no guarantee of innovation,” 007 says, turning to smile directly at 004. It’s not a particularly nice smile.

“And age is no guarantee of efficiency.” A pointed reminder that 004 is thirty-four, having beaten Bond’s record of being the youngest Double-Oh in history by five years. Arrogant, cheeky brat.

Now that he thinks about it, M has wanted a trained and leashed Double-Oh for herself for a while now, and this kid definitely seems to fit the bill. Maybe she’s hoping 004’s placidness will rub off on 007?

...probably not. She’s manipulative and as cold as the worst Russian winter but M isn’t stupid.

Simultaneously, they register the sound of footsteps from outside the door. Tanner. Those sly green eyes evaluate Bond and then 004 leans forward and holds out his hand, ostensibly to offer an olive branch. “Q.”

007 maintains his impassiveness even as he frowns inwardly. Q? What sort of name is that? The whole point of having an actual name beyond the codename is to blend in. Drawing attention with a single letter name is senseless.

It’s a good thing he wasn’t harbouring high expectations for his newest colleague because _Q_ certainly wouldn’t have met them.

Thoughts safely concealed beneath his infamous poker face, he takes Q’s hand and smiles, perfectly charming. “Bond, James Bond.”

They pull apart just as the door opens.

* * *

The second Tanner enters the room, he can feel the tension.

He pauses and carefully closes the door behind him. Years of dealing with volatile field agents have him drawing on the breathing techniques his psychologist suggested. He wipes his face blank and assumes a calm, unruffled demeanour.

Operatives, he’s learned, are like sharks. They can smell fear, and if you display any weakness, you’ll be torn to pieces immediately.

Except, upon turning around, Tanner finds none of the chaos he was expecting. Two Double-Oh agents are sitting a couple of metres apart, and strained atmosphere aside, 007 is _behaving_ and 004, who is always mannerly except when he’s wiping a town off the map, smiles at Tanner like nothing’s wrong.

“Good morning,” Q greets mildly.

This just doesn’t _happen._ Where are the posturing, threats, glares, and miniature explosions? M’s office is meant to be a weapons-free zone, but he knows that’s never stopped any Double-Oh before. He was expecting a few knife holes in the walls at the very least.

“...good morning,” Tanner returns. “M’s laid out the objective then?”

Bond hums out a noncommittal noise, the smirk on his lips softening into something a drop less lethal, a wry little half-smile. “You can’t expect to degrade a celestial body and not provoke revenge.”

“Reclassification,” Q corrects, as fastidious as a feline turning up its nose at the rest of the ignorant human race. “Pluto doesn’t clear the neighbourhood around its orbit; thus, it’s a dwarf planet. Perfectly logical.”

“Would you be happy if someone named you a dwarf?”

“My gravity is hardly strong enough to turn me into a spherical shape. And more importantly, I’m not in a shape of hydrostatic equilibrium,” Q says, deadpan. “Hence, by IAU classification, I’m not a planet at all.”

Just as Bond is opening his mouth to shoot a quip back, Tanner clears his throat and shifts to lean against M’s desk, neatly breaking the half-hostile, half-probing back and forth in favour of being pinned to the ground by two pairs of alert eyes. “Actually, the organisation isn’t named after the planet...err, dwarf planet in our solar system.”

Q purses his lips, blinking thoughtfully at the wall for a long moment. “Clodius...Publius Clodius Pulcher was a Roman politician during the rise of the First Triumvirate. So, I assume the Pluto we’re talking about would be the Roman God of the Underworld?”

“Did you swallow an encyclopaedia?” Bond mutters grouchily. Q ignores him.

Tanner merely nods, unsurprised by 004’s extensive knowledge. As Chief of Staff, he’s one of the few individuals who have been allowed to see past the unassuming demeanour Q displays to the world to the diamond-bright mind that whirls beneath. 004 probably actually does swallow encyclopedias for breakfast or at least, is capable of it.

“Quite. The God of Death and Wealth. Somewhat appropriately, Pluto is a purely mercenary organisation,” he says. “They started showing up on our radar a year ago, although we have cause to believe they’ve been operating for more than five. We haven’t been able to track down any of their smuggling routes but we know they specialise in drugs and arms trafficking.”

“All of their transactions occur online,” Tanner continues. “Their known patrons are Quantum, Al-Qaeda, and Los Rastrojos. As far as we can tell, they don’t care who their clients are so long as they have money and aren’t on the right side of the law.”

004 interlocks his fingers, thoughtful. “If their business happens solely over the ‘net, I doubt even _they_ know who their clients are. It’s notoriously easy to become anonymous nowadays. The organisation would have to request payment first.”

“Could be,” Tanner agrees. “Q-Branch thinks they have both an intranet and an extranet, but we don’t have enough information to get into either. Their network needs to be shut down first before the actual routes can be sorted out.”

That’s actually precisely why 004 has also been assigned to this mission when, traditionally, Double-Oh agents work alone.

And Q proves the decision true in a heartbeat. “An intranet _and_ an extranet? They’ll need a technological centre to keep that going. And if they’re smart, it won’t be close to their drug and weapon manufacturing warehouses. Divide and conquer.”

“Yes. Clodius isn’t high up in the hierarchy but he acts as some sort of scout. It’s possible he was sent to just get preliminary information, but we think he’s trying to get in touch with terrorist organisations in Japan. A criminal salesman, per se.”

“You know,” 007 says, tilting his head a fraction to the side like a curious bird of prey that’s spotted an opening in its cage, “our information seems rather selective. Where did we get all of this from?”

Damn it. Now he owes Boothroyd twenty quid. Why that old man would bet against Q in the first place is beyond Tanner.

“We get to thank our friends at MI5 for this one. During one of their missions, an agent encountered a member of Pluto consorting with a known terrorist. He was apprehended, and once it became clear that he was a part of a mostly-unknown criminal organisation…”

“He ratted out Clodius,” 007 predicts with a sharp smile, smoothly shrugging off the implied torture. 004’s face is unreadable.

“Yes. And he gave us this.” Tanner hesitate but deftly flips the picture of Clodius over and shows the paper to Q and Bond. They scrutinise the ancient-looking golden key on the back.

004 arches an eyebrow. “And the significance of this is…?”

“Our dead informant had this tattooed on his tongue,” Tanner explains. “It appears to correspond to the Latin phrase that he screamed before killing himself. As far as we can tell, the quote roughly translates to ‘rites they to none betray, ere on his lips is laid secrecy's golden key’.”

“He betrayed the organisation,” Q murmurs, almost to himself. “Broke the vow. He believed that if he didn’t kill himself, they would have killed him. And probably with far more pain involved.” It speaks to the fear behind the loyalty and the belief of omnipotence that Pluto has constructed even for its own members.

“How exactly did he kill himself while in MI5’s custody?” Bond asks with an offhand sort of curiosity, leaning back in his chair.

Tanner grimaces. “He lacerated his tongue and severed the lingual artery. Choked on his own blood and died.”

Bond smirks. “Bit off more than he could chew, hmm?”

004 visibly twitches.

* * *

Q walks out of M’s office with 007 by his side and anxiety creeping into his mind like the first numbing touches of a paralytic punched into his bloodstream without his consent. Christ, this was not what he expected when he first got the notice that he was assigned to another mission after only four hours of off-duty napping.

He doesn’t need anyone to tell him this is not the time to screw up. The timing is bloody awful, what with the other Double-Ohs still circling him, looking for a weakness as predators tend to do, and he supposes this is M’s version of trial by fire.

Granted, not fucking up is always easier said than done, but Q doesn’t back down from a challenge. Not even one issued by the imprudent man prowling beside him, strong muscles flexing subtly beneath his beautifully tailored suit.

_Show-off_ , he thinks, followed by, _shit._

Because, for all of Bond’s clear derision, he continues to exude the raw, magnetic pull Q’s heard so much about with his roguish smiles and burning eyes. There’s just... _something_ about him that draws attention and holds it with taunting ease.

Thankfully, this vexing oversight only occurs when 007 keeps his mouth shut.

“Better pack smart,” Bond advises casually with a maddening smirk as they head down to Q-Branch, walking just a little too close. “No telling how long this mission will last. Ever been on a long-term mission as a Double-Oh?”

When he starts talking, the majority of Q’s preoccupation splinters into righteous exasperation and annoyance. This, he hopes, combined with his training and pride, should be more than enough for him to maintain his composure throughout this coming ordeal.

“Noted,” Q says crisply, “and no. As you well know.” All Double-Ohs are started out on quick, fast, brutal missions that quickly adjust them to the blood-soaked, merciless life they have committed to. The undercover and surveillance missions normally come later.

“Take this as a crucial learning opportunity then. There’s nothing wrong with learning the tricks of the trade from an experienced operative.” It sounds like a friendly offer but 007’s positioning of himself as the ‘master of the trade’ is a subtle power play, and Q knows it.

So this is how he wants to play the game.

Q says nothing of the heads turning to glance at them, or more precisely, 007, and the people scurrying out of their way. He knows it’s not him they’re afraid of. There aren’t many people who recognise him as dangerous and even fewer who know him as 004, and that’s how he likes it.

007, on the other hand…

Barely two-thirds of a year as a Double-Oh and James Bond is already a figure of awe and want and fear within MI6. He leaves behind himself a path of scorched, dead bodies and beautiful, heartbroken women, and Q -

“Forgive me, but are you referring to the attention-catching explosions or the daring parkour?”

“Both,” is the short reply.

Q has only been a Double-Oh for forty-six days, and if he was given the choice, he certainly would not have chosen to go on his first partner mission with bloody 007.

Not when he’s already made it clear that he has issues with Q’s age and relative inexperience. Not when he’s known for his unpredictability, disregard for rules and following orders, and generally charging forward like an enraged bull.

In fact, if the information in his classified file is correct, the last time 007 went on a partner mission, it was with 006, and together, they toppled a government and almost created a crater the size of Nevada in Russia.

_No, thank you._

“Don’t tell me you have an issue with exploding pens,” Bond continues, the thinnest whisper of condescending amusement dancing between his words. “Field work really isn’t necessarily for everyone, you know. You’d make a marvellous member of Q-Branch.”

Q doesn’t bother being offended at the slight to his slender body type and nerdish air. There are advantages to being underestimated. “Explosive pens are a bit last century, don’t you think? The inevitability of time, I suppose.”

007’s stride remains as confident and powerful as ever. “Do you know what’s most important in the field, Q? I’ll give you a hint: it’s not fancy toys.”

Q refuses to respond to the manner in which Bond purrs his name, drawing it out into something suggestive and threatening all at once. He knows 007 has a talent for honeypot missions, but they’re _colleagues_ , for God’s sake. A veneer of professionalism would be much appreciated.

“ _Rerum omnium magister usus_ ,” he quotes instead, the foreign language rolling off his tongue with ease. It’s a good thing he took Latin classes at Uni, what with Pluto’s apparent penchant for Ancient Rome.

Bond chuckles as the doors to Q-Branch open. “Experience is the teacher of all things,” he translates easily, to Q’s surprise and reluctant approval, both quickly hidden away. “It’s rare I find an admirer of Julius Caesar.”

“He had his good points,” Q says primly, unconcerned when every eye in Q-Branch latches onto them. He’s friends with most of the boffins, so, 004 status aside, the general consensus is fear towards 007 and incredulous what-are-you- _doing_ -ness directed towards him.

As it is, Q can’t very well explain that, yes, he did pay attention to the countless horror stories told of 007’s tendency to go off the grid, give any and all equipment he’s assigned a painful death, flirt with anything living, breathing, and with legs, and typically be a pain in the arse to work with.

It’s just that he simply isn’t stupid enough to argue with M once her mind is made up.

“Ah, 004!” Boothroyd calls from across the room when he spots the two agents coming towards him, smiling widely. “There you are, I’ve been expecting you! Come and take a look at this prototype, I need your young eyes.”

Q grins, distracted enough to momentarily push aside his 007-induced frustration. He carefully takes the Beretta 418 that Boothroyd hands him and examines the microdermal sensor embedded within.

As always, Boothroyd's work is superb but it only takes Q a few seconds of observation to pick out some issues that could use correcting. It would also be helpful to have an indicator that the palm print matches so as to prevent misunderstandings and -

_Shit._

Training dictates he be aware of his surrounding at all times, but 004’s still hard-pressed not to shoot the man in the face when the sudden proximity of 007 at his side sends a wave of expensive cologne into his nostrils and every survival-instinct blaring at red alert.

His cats, currently stashed away and being doted upon by Ms Boothroyd, are fucking noisier than Bond.

A tanned, calloused hand settles on the barrel, warm against Q’s ring finger. “Never played with a gun before, Q?”

...it’s just like the tosser to insult and flirt with him in one breath, isn’t it?

Q fights off the flush he can feel rising in his cheeks and tries not to punch Bond in the face. The voice of reason points out that getting into a fight with another Double-Oh in Q-Branch isn’t really the impression he wants to send to MI6. God knows what M will say.

Past evidence indicates that she’d prefer a few fist fights to a failed mission, but no one with any sense of self-preservation and sanity wants to endure the full force of M’s wrath. It’s possibly M’s most impressive achievement that, indeed, even those _without_ any sense of self-preservation or sanity are still afraid of her.

Q’s saved from coming up with an answer that doesn’t sound flustered and mildly murderous when Boothroyd cuts in, scolding, “007, you rascal, what have I said about mucking about with prototypes? Keep your bloody fingers to yourself!”

“Oh, are we playing favourites now, Boothroyd? Is that why your name is Q? You’re named after our beloved Quartermaster and Q-Branch?” jabs Bond, agreeably putting some distance between them after a lingering brush of his hand against Q’s arm.

It’s a throwaway comment, just as meaningless as the mockingly flirtatious touch. Q _knows_ it’s a throwaway comment, meant to rile him up. It’s still utterly infuriating. Even flying blind, it appears, Bond is disturbingly skilled at going for weak points.

004 blinks slowly and reminds himself sternly that stabbing 007 with the knife on his keychain is Not Allowed and will leave him without a partner for the mission, bristling instincts and familial pride damned.

“You watch that tongue of yours,” Boothroyd merely shoots back, unperturbed. “Or I’ll certainly indulge my ‘favoritism’ and give 004 all my fun toys while showing you to the door with a water gun and some party poppers.”

Bond laughs, a rich, warm, completely artificial noise. “Touche, Quartermaster.”

This mission, Q concludes, is going to be a bloody _wreck._

* * *

They’re in first class, of course. The window is to Bond’s left, and below, the clouds are crimson and blush, the colours of the sunset breathtaking. On the table in front of him, remnants of dinner are laid out elegantly and a bottle of wine with two clean glasses rests on the side.

Seated directly across from him, 004’s legs are crossed, his head buried in a book. He’s changed into a black jumper and black trousers with a navy suit jacket on top and sturdy black boots beneath, the touch of formality somewhat appealing. Q in a properly tailored three-piece suit might even be worth looking twice at.

004 gives every impression of being a bookish, disarming man utterly ignorant of his surroundings. Bond, who’s changed into a black suit himself, isn’t gullible enough to buy it. He might be saddled with a green amateur, but all Double-Ohs go through extensive training, and he’s seen the hallmarks in 004: silent steps, fluid movements, and a certain steel to his gaze that only murderers can pull off.

Grimly, he wonders how long this 004 will last. Two days? Another week? Cheeky, pretentious fool or not, Bond will do his best to keep Q alive, but, well. It’s been proven again and again that his best isn’t enough most of the time. Even M’s threats can’t change reality.

_“I shouldn’t have left you alone.”_

“You’re staring,” 004 warns without looking up.

Bond smiles, dismissing the fragment of memory to dip his voice low and sensuous, falling back on his usual tactics automatically. “You’re worth staring at.”

“Initial impressions would disagree with you there. Changing your mind?” Q smiles blandly, snapping his book closed and carefully placing it on the table, far from their dirty plates and cutlery.

“Hardly. But I’ve always held a deep appreciation for a certain kind of beauty. And you certainly have that.” The fading light caresses 004’s carelessly mussed dark curls and illuminates his eyes, showing off soft skin untouched by shrapnel and bullets and age.

Like this, Q is as fragile and beautiful as stained glass, a work of art, certainly, but not one meant for touch.

Bond knew someone like that, too. He tries not to think too much on the resemblance.

A flight attendant walks past and collects their plates with a shallow smile. “Thank you,” 004 says to her and then quirks an eyebrow at Bond, calm as a mountain lake. “You’re well-versed in empty flattery. I’ll lose my pretty head if you go on like this.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth,” quips 007. He removes the cork from the wine bottle and pours a glass for himself.

“Has that line ever worked on anyone? Ever?” Q asks with a curiosity that could almost be taken as genuine.

“You’re welcome to be the first.”

“I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you.” Q snorts delicately and picks up his book once more. “I won’t be going to sleep until I finish this, so feel free to get some rest or continue brooding. Some wine, ta?”

Bond could throw the wine bottle at Q’s head and pretend it was an accident. He _could._

Instead, he smiles a tight, little smile that he knows the boy can see in his peripheral vision and pours him a glass of wine with practised elegance.

* * *

Sleep tugs at Q’s eyelids. He shoves it back with stubborn tenacity and tries to concentrate on the rippling words on the page he’s been trying to read for the past twenty minutes. The skies are dark outside their window, and their neighbours are fast asleep.

Q wants to sleep. He’ll _need_ to sleep soon, but according to his sleep deprivation training, he’ll be fine for another five days before the lack of rest becomes a true liability. For now, letting himself be vulnerable in the presence of another predator is a risk that outweighs the benefits.

Q might have bothered with a smidgen of guilt at keeping his light on but Bond isn’t sleeping either, no doubt for similar reasons. He’s gone through the whole bottle of wine - Q having limited himself to his one glass - and now looks to be contemplating the call button.

A nasty question lingers on 004’s tongue - something about scotch, which he’s heard to be 007’s favourite, something about Vesper Lynd, which he’s been warned is a forbidden subject, and something about coping mechanisms, which he knows nips at his own heels - but he swallows it down.

They’ve coexisted in silence for over four hours. He’s loathed to break that fragile peace now.

And even Double-Ohs have lines they’re rather not cross.

* * *

Tokyo is just as beautiful and chaotic as Bond remembers, buildings on every side reaching for the sky, streams of people running in every direction, thousands of advertisements and signs screaming for his attention while the occasional tree attempts to fit between towers.

They come across an anti-wrinkle cream display not two minutes in, Bond pointedly ignoring Q’s needling smile. He lost all rights to comment on Bond’s appearance when he pulled on that hideous, shapeless parka as they left the airport.

It may be chilly, but it’s not that bloody chilly. 007 maintains that he’ll have to be seconds away from dying of hypothermia before ever letting that atrocity near him.

Two blocks from the airport, they find their designated taxi waiting patiently by the curb.

It’s unusual for a Japanese cabbie to remain seated when his customers arrive, but Bond is unsurprised by the lack of greeting. Their driver wears a hat, and his face is turned away. Anonymity is one of the few gifts that M grants to those tangled up in MI6’s strings.

007 doesn’t bother holding the door open, customarily the cabbie’s job. Q catches it by his fingertips five centimetres before it slams shut and blinks at Bond in a primly disapproving fashion.

Bond only smiles back charmingly. A small voice in the back of his mind points out that continuously antagonising his partner is probably going to come back and bite him in the arse. He ignores it with the ease of practice and the grumpiness of sleep deprivation.

Neither of them slept or even dozed shallowly on that eleven and a half hour flight, and judging from the dark circles under Q’s eyes, Bond’s not the only one who needs some rest.

As soon as they sit down, 004 reaches into his bag and pulls out a Clevo laptop decorated all over with questionable stickers. Settling it in his lap, he sticks his hand back in his bag while it’s starting up and nonchalantly holds out two passports.

It’s...their identification papers, Bond recognises with a sudden and well-hidden jolt. When did Boothroyd have the chance to hand 004 those? Bond was with them the entire time, and he saw nothing.

“James Saris and William Adams, ” Bond reads, darting a sly sideways look at Q to cover up the brief flare of reluctant acknowledgement. The aged Quartermaster is wily but it takes two to tango. “Would William happen to be your real name?”

“Sheer coincidence, I’m afraid.” Q takes back the bona fides. “We work for the same company - Turing and Clarke **-** but in different divisions. You’re a marketing consultant, and I’m an IT manager. Entirely different reasons for this trip but our company thought that we might as well come together. We’re _great_ friends.” For all his flawless professional exterior, 004’s tone is drier than Bond’s martinis.

The screen goes grey and then black, bright blue lines of coding scrolling unnervingly from left to right and top to down. In the upper right, the date and time - December 12, 13:58 - appear in big white capitals, and a command prompt pops up, filled with more code.

The only thing 007 manages, and needs, to understand shows up after dozens of lines of code have typed themselves up in the small black box in the span of about five seconds.

**PASSWORD:_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _**

“Of _course_ we are. And what are we doing in Japan?” Bond sprawls back in his seat, purposefully listing to the side to intrude into Q’s space. This provokes a somewhat stroppy glance, which he pretends not to notice.

As expected, 004 doesn’t notice that Bond can see everything on the screen.

004 hums, fingers flying across the keyboard in a sequence of twenty-eight numbers and letters that are entirely nonsensical. The laptop confirms that the password is correct. Then it asks for the next one.

“You’re here to meet with a new client in three days. I’m here to attend a conference at Hanabi, a telecommunications company, tomorrow. Talk of the big technologies of the future and all that. Very important.” Q enters his third password and yet another request appears.

Christ, why isn’t this boy in Q-Branch, working as Boothroyd’s prodigy or something? He’s obviously suited for the material and field work is a thousand times more dangerous. And more active, for that matter.

Q looks far more suited to yoga than wrestling. Slender and delicate as he is, Bond could snap him in half like a bloody twig.

There’s something very familiar about this setup; the afternoon sunshine glides along Q’s hair so it shines darkly, their cover stories hang heavily overtop them, and Bond grits his teeth, irritation a heavy swell in his chest.

After the fourth password, all of which mean absolutely nothing to Bond but are now firmly memorized, the screen finally fades into pure white. Q types some more and a map of Tokyo appears. A red dot hobbles slowly along a familiar street.

In fact, Bond is certain he just saw that street name fly past them a minute ago.

007 narrows his eyes fractionally and considers the equipment he was given. Unless Medical’s been up to no good (which is always), he’s had nothing embedded under his skin recently. His partner on the other hand….

“Tracker?” He keeps his voice conversational but quiet. To casual observers, Bond might even appear relaxed or disinterested. In contrast, his small smile holds a storm of icy fury.

Not that 004 appears to detect the danger. Or care, for that matter. Maybe MI6 training _is_ starting to slip. “It’s just the signal from my laptop,” deadpans Q. “No more remarkable than the various phones in use on the street right at this moment. Ever heard of GPS, Mr Saris?”

“Ever had someone dig out a chunk of your arm to remove a chip, Mr Adams?” 007 retorts, lazy tone never changing. Unseen, his left fingers curl, just slightly, as if in preparation for holding a gun or clenching into a fist.

There’s a noticeable pause, although the pitter-patter of typing continues, Q’s fingers barely skimming the keys as his eyes remain locked on the screen. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“You should try it sometime. Really lends perspective,” Bond says mildly, the frost underlying his tone the only outward sign of his anger.

“I’ll pass, ta.”

“Suit yourself.” Bond smiles pleasantly and pretends to look out the window, forcibly shoving his anger aside. Figures the haughty little shit can’t even manage to gracefully admit he was wrong.

From the corner of his eye, he continues to watch as Q works. Complex and countless lines of code come and go under Q’s long fingers, and try as he might, Bond can only follow a fraction of what he’s doing.

It looks like Q’s falsifying records and changing data. Again, Bond is sure that Q-Branch has their arms spread wide-open and has sent out digital invitations to their nerd club multiple times already.

Their taxi eventually pulls up to their hotel after a full fifteen minutes of silence broken solely by the click-clack of keys and the crackling of frustrated tension. The cabbie looks straight ahead and says softly in Japanese, “7,000 yen, please.”

Park Hyatt Tokyo looks like an architect mashed together three elegant skyscrapers and promptly called it a day. Q doesn’t so much as glance at it before shutting his laptop, grabbing his bag, and claiming, “I’ll grab our rooms,” with a beatific smile.

For such an underwhelming Double-Oh, Bond notes dryly, Q’s certainly got the running part down. Without giving even the slightest impression of hurrying, he’s stepping into the hotel by the time Bond realises he’s been left with the bill.

He rolls his eyes and pays their patiently-awaiting cabbie before heading in.

The soles of 007’s shoes strike sharply against the white marbled floor, the lobby bright and open with a glass roof and areas of carefully cultivated flora. They’re a gorgeous bright green, all the more beautiful for flourishing during the sparse winter.

Bond finds Q waiting by the lifts, the button already pressed. He’s holding a smartphone rather than a standard-issue flip phone, which is odd. As far as Bond knows, although the new smartphones coming out have some interesting features, the many and specialised applications on the Q-Branch phones are far more useful in the field and are connected to MI6 to boot. With his clear connection to Q-Branch already established, 007 would have expected 004 to pick the high-tech gadget over the flashy and new.

Without looking up from his phone, where he’s texting something rapidly, Q tosses a room card, stopping Bond a metre away so he can snatch it out of the air with one hand.

_Ding!_

Q walks into the available lift, only glancing up from his phone for half a second. He makes no attempt to hold open the doors. It takes Bond one wide stride to cover the distance between them and forcibly catch the left door with his hand.

The doors skid to a halt with an outraged screech. Q’s glare is amazingly similar.

Bond smiles and steps into the lift. As the doors close behind him and the lift begins to move, he bumps past Q, casually pickpockets him, and leans against the wall adjacent to Q’s left, all in one smooth motion.

“It would serve you right if your fingers got broken because you decided to put your hand where it’s not supposed to be,” Q snips, eyes on his phone.

It’s a testament to Bond’s composure that he doesn’t so much as blink in surprise during the five-second interval it takes him to realize Q isn’t referring to the stealing. “I _am_ very good at that. It’s scandalous, really, where my hands have been.”

“I’m sure.” 004 flicks a look at Bond from the corner of his eye that 007 quickly realises is actually meant for evaluating the camera located in the upper left corner. Bond’s already instinctively angled himself so the camera can’t see the outline of his gun and his partner is shielded from view. He _has_ worked with other agents on other missions before, however much he might dislike doing so.

There’s a certain cunningness now to the soft curve of 004’s mouth, those pianist fingers speeding up. Granted, for all Bond knows, Q could be ordering pizza instead of taking over the security system. He supposes it _is_ easier to type on a smartphone than on a flip phone, if that was what 004 was going for.

007 chooses to remain in position and feign ignorance.

They say nothing more for the rest of the ride. It’s almost a disappointment when the lift halts at the forty-sixth floor and nothing’s exploded yet. Bond pushes off the wall with a boot and waits for Q to join him before searching out their rooms.

Their hotel rooms are right next to each other. How convenient.

Q, who rather impressively _still_ has his attention on his phone and hasn’t walked into anything, reaches into his right pocket and retrieves his own room card. “Have a good day, Mr Saris,” he says absently and entirely insincerely. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s missing anything.

He’s in the process of clumsily unlocking his door when Bond lays a hand on the side of his innocuous bag and curls his fingers to touch the cool surface of the laptop inside.

004 goes quiescent. Eerily so.

Under the artificial lights from above, the shade of Q’s eyes are remarkably similar to the vegetation in the lobby as he peers up at Bond through his long black eyelashes. It’s rather fetching, all things considered, and this boy would make a lovely honeytrap, wouldn’t he?

What’s he doing with a license to kill?

“My,” 004 says, coy look and professional tone and tight smile, “have we forgotten the harassment protocols already?”

Bond chuckles and bends his head to whisper into Q’s ear, arm braced on the wall. “All those passwords,” he whispers, rich and smooth as dark chocolate, “aren’t worth a damn if someone knows them all. Not very clever, keeping that screen in my peripheral vision the entire time.”

004 is motionless as the notion sinks into his mind. A pretty, hot flush sweeps up his neck and touches his cheeks, the tips of his ears a shade lighter than his cherry lips. It’s a good look on him, Bond has to admit.

(The flutter of a red dress and closed eyelids, delicate skin clammy and frigid, the smell of canal water lodged in his chest - )

Well, well, well.

Bond ghosts his free hand up Q’s arm and down his side, sneaking his fingers beneath his parka to stroke the silk of his surprisingly high-end suit jacket. He spreads his fingers wide and observes the rapid pulse of his target with shrewd satisfaction, eyes hooded.

007 smirks lazily, blood more ice than fire, and exhales slowly on that long, vulnerable neck, observing the resulting goosebumps with interest. Susceptible to intimate contact then, priggish attitude aside. Unfortunately for 004, no intelligence agency can afford that kind of weakness.

He’s going to fuck this boy into the mattress and screw that suicidal hubris right out of him, Bond decides. Maybe even tease that rich voice hoarse of its posh disdain. The uptight ones always break and moan for him so prettily.

And even nicer, M won’t be able to complain, not when an elite agent has been proven susceptible to this sort of low-ball seduction. Really, he’s doing all three of them a favour. With everything 007’s seen so far, even if 004 survives this mission, he’ll die in a crummy alleyway in some third-world country within weeks nevertheless -

Slowly, softly, 004 raises a hand and cups Bond’s nape so very gently, and 007 is the one who freezes this time. There’s a prickling in his gut that normally warns him of incoming danger, and those fingers stroke once.

Twice. Less of a sensual touch, more of a reminder.

“My passwords change every ten seconds, and my laptop locks down after one minute of inactivity. I don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere anytime soon without my permission.” No anger, no vindication, simply calm implacability.

Thrice.

With that, Q spins away curtly and crosses the threshold into his hotel room, leaving a good half a metre of distance between them. “Red light. I’ll thank you to keep your hands off of me, Mr Saris,” he says firmly and closes the door in Bond’s face.

...there were gun calluses on his fingers.

* * *

In the assumed privacy of his room, Q kicks himself into mission-mode immediately. This hotel building, along with its security and personnel, are all now being carefully monitored by Q-Branch, courtesy of his earlier shenanigans, but that’s no reason to take unnecessary risks.

Not like a certain other Double-Oh’s prone to doin -

Even when he’s not here, Bond is a bastard. Q grimaces momentarily before pushing all thoughts of 007 out of his head and stamping out the flickers of heat in his veins to focus on what he needs to do.

Back against the door, 004 opens up a sonar app he personally created on his phone, which has also been rewired, reprogrammed, and remodelled by him, and plugs a custom microphone into the headphone jack. Holding his phone out in front of him, he waits.

Ten seconds later, a partial map of his room emerges with a red dot near the door. Black print floats near the dot.

ESTIMATED DISTANCE: 1 METRE, SIX O’CLOCK

ESTIMATED INDIVIDUALS: 1

BPM DETECTED: 45

RESPIRATIONS DETECTED: 3

That’s a ninety-five percent chance there’s only him here then. Excellent.

Hitting the lock and engaging the chain, Q digs into the left pocket of his parka and snaps on a motion detector around the doorknob, disguised as a metal ring. Against the predictably brass knob, it blends in perfectly.

A single click of the discrete button and the device is on, directly connected to his phone. It has a wonderful remote-controlled electroshock function that he can’t wait to try out on some unsuspecting fool.

004 advances down the short hallway with his gun in hand, sparing an admiring glance for the minimalist art that graces the sand-coloured walls. It reminds him of the National Art Gallery, where he used to do his homework.

He peeks into the bathroom as he passes, silently marvelling at the deep soaking tub. After a moment of thought, 004 tucks a small explosive securely under the sink and continues on his way.

004 enters the main area of the room, taking in the queen-sized bed made up with white linens, the mahogany desk and chair, and the television with calm vigilance. He eases open the glass doors to the small, narrow balcony and admires the view for a second.

Upon confirming there really is no one in the suite but him, he removes a bug scanner from his bag and proceeds to go over every corner. Nothing comes up.

That done, 004 drops his scanner into his bag and places the bag on the table. One last examination of the room reveals nothing out of the ordinary, and with that, he concludes to himself that this is a relatively safe environment.

Then, and only then, does Q allow himself to exhale slowly and close his eyes. He falls back on the bed and grabs a pillow to punch several times in a fit of frustration and annoyance, trusting that the muffled noise won’t travel beyond the thin walls.

Damn 007 to hell. And back again, because God knows the bastard would only delight in bathing in sin. Q can still feel the ghost of his lips brushing the shell of his ear, the hot breath teasing his skin, the delicious warmth rolling from an enticing body much too close to his.

The most infuriating part of the whole matter, Q decides, sitting up to frown at the ceiling, is that despite knowing _exactly_ what game 007 was playing, he still fell for it. There’s really no one but himself to blame for this.

007 was only being 007. 004 was the one who was an idiot, who allowed himself to drown in those blue, blue eyes, who willingly relinquished his control, even for just two seconds, to enjoy the sultry heat of the spell 007’s ever so good at spinning.

Perhaps, if he hadn’t sensed the calculated coldness behind the heat of Bond’s every move, Q might even have acquiesced and made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Fuck, this isn’t even about _him_. Not really.

And yet, here he is.

Not to mention, he was so distracted by 007’s provocative statements and intrusive body language in the car that he didn’t even _notice_ Bond was looking at his screen. That is entirely on him, and he knows it.

Q grits his teeth. Such a lapse is unacceptable. He’ll have to be more careful in the future. It wouldn’t do to let his guard down again in any way, not when Bond’s ever so good at exploiting the smallest vulnerability.

Before he can torment himself further, a familiar trill sounds. His luggage bag is on the floor, next to the lamp, and from it, he pulls out an attache briefcase that he drops on the bed. He places his laptop on it for air vent protection.

As expected, a request for a video chat is waiting for him. He accepts and Boothroyd’s genial face promptly fills the screen. “Ah, Mr Adams, good to see you! I trust everything is as it should be?”

“Yes, sir,” Q says, permitting the calculating numbness of 004 to sleep for a while longer to grace the Quartermaster with a sweet smile few others have ever had the luxury of seeing. “I’m clear.”

“Good.” Boothroyd smiles back, reassured. “You like the hotel then?”

It’s not quite a question a normal handler need ask, but Q nods. “It’s a nice place.” Seeing as they’re masquerading as normal employees in the dubious economy, they haven’t been settled with the best suites the hotel has to offer, but Q doesn’t mind.

“Good, good.” Boothroyd nods briskly and shifts gears. “Clodius has reservations at the restaurant, Kozue, five floors below you, tonight. We have cause to believe that he’ll be meeting with Seiji Toya, a senior yakuza member of the Sumiyoshi-kai.”

“Making a pitch,” Q mutters.

“Yes. He has a reservation there for 1915.”

Q considers this. Preliminary intelligence gathering suits his nature.

He glances at the clock; it’s _2:29_. It rings dissonant with his internal clock, which tells him that it’s somewhere around midnight, no doubt a side effect of spending five terrible days in Pasto, Colombia. His brain, on the other hand, is telling him that it’s around 0500 in London. This is what comes of messing about with time zones. “Thank you, Quartermaster. I’ll...talk with 007.”

“Hah, good luck with that one, 004.” Boothroyd laughs and then pauses, more seriously this time. “And Q, be safe.”

“I will.”

It’s a lie and they both know it.

* * *

Bond walks out of his bathroom, gun in hand, to find Q lounging on his bed in a white bathrobe, most of which has slipped off his shoulders to reveal a generous portion of collarbone. Considering 007 has a towel in his other hand and is dressed in only sweatpants, Bond would dare say 004’s the more well-dressed of the two of them for once.

The cocky little shit. This is either a very bold or a very stupid declaration of war. He contemplates just shooting 004 for three whole seconds before deciding that’s simply too much bloody paperwork. Sighing, he places his Walther on the nearby desk.

There _are_ a myriad of ways Q could have broken in, but the simplest manner is the most likely: he did exactly what Bond did to him in taking the liberty of pilfering 007’s extra room key when he first got their rooms.

“Having fun?” Bond leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his feet braced, utterly shameless. The towel he slings over a shoulder in the event that he’ll require a tool for strangulation and his hands are full.

Q has a laptop on top of a hardcover book on his lap, and that’s where the majority of his focus remains for all that he has a half-naked 007 watching him not four metres away. He’s taken a shower, too; his dark, curly hair is even more unruly than it usually is. His cheeks are flushed, presumably from the warmth of the hot water, his skin damp and dewy.

Christ, this is practically an _invitation_ for debauchment. Red light, his arse.

“Can’t say I’m not,” Q demures. “You won’t mind if I borrow a few pillows, will you? Free up some room for future guests.” From the looks of it, he’s already taken the liberty. Three pillows prop him up against the headboard.

“And if the only guest I want in my bed is already there and seems quite comfortable?” Bond’s been in the shower for the past twenty minutes. He didn’t hear anything that indicated an intruder, but Q would have waited at least five minutes before breaking in. That’s fifteen minutes that are unaccounted for. Plenty of time for mischief.

“I would hate to intrude - “

“Oh, trust me, you wouldn’t be intruding.” Bond lets his voice drop to a suggestive murmur, crossing the room in a sinuous prowl. He circles around the bed to come up on Q’s left, noting the lack of firearms.

It’s hard to tell whether he’s wearing anything under the bathrobe but a Chanel watch decorates his wrist, gunmetal grey face and pale blue strap. Not the most expensive or impressive of watches, but knowing Boothroyd, that timepiece could be anything, do anything.

Bond chooses to sit on the edge of the bed anyway, smiling with all the sinister charm of a panther, breathing through the burn of anger-adrenaline-anticipation.

“Sounds reckless.” Q finally raises his head to look at him, unconcerned with the reduced distance. He smiles and licks his lips, eyes trailing appreciatively over Bond’s bare torso, heated eyes lingering thoughtfully on old scars. “I don’t like to be reckless, Mr Bond.”

What else is meeting another Double-Oh in his own territory without a weapon called? Bond leans forward, the lazy movement calling attention to his powerful muscles. He smirks at the nearly unnoticeable flush at the tip of Q’s ears. “This room could be bugged.”

“It’s not. I checked.”

“Put your hands all over my undergarments, did you?” taunts Bond as he reexamines his room with one fluid sweep of his gaze. Nothing’s out of place. “No, you didn’t. Unless you also happen to have an eidetic memory?”

“We’re living in the 21st century; I assure you, Q-Branch’s scanners are more than enough for my purposes. In fact, Boothroyd’s seen fit to inform me that our friend’s having dinner with yakuza leader, Seiji Toya, just five floors below us. Are we to let them dine alone?”

“It’s been quite awhile since I’ve had authentic Japanese cuisine,” Bond says, placing a hand on the bare upper arm within his reach with a nonchalance that fools absolutely no one. A quick, practised twist, and the bone will snap, leaving 004 at a considerable disadvantage.

He’s not quite sure how he feels about the boy’s level of threat at the moment. The muscle under Bond’s palm is undeniable, as are the abs a glance down his robe reveals. His build is more powerful than 007 expected, lean rather than skinny, meant for speed rather than strength.

It was practically unnoticed under his cardigans, which isn’t a half bad tactic to appear harmless. 007 tends to not bother, aware that the aura of danger he curates is a part of his charm and capable of flaunting it, but he supposes Q doesn’t have that advantage.

004 nods almost absently, not pulling away although he shifts to the right, closer to the sturdy lamp on the bedside table. A few more keystrokes and then, “Reservation at 1900. I don’t suppose I need to tell you to look nice.”

007’s chuckle is pitched to be amused and deep and laced with something far more intoxicating than the scotch he likes so much. “I always look nice, wouldn’t you say?”

There’s a delicate pause as Q’s fingers go still at last, his breath hitching slightly. The look he’s pierced with is pensive, more guarded than amorous, and for all that Bond has been shirtless to his skin for the past five minutes, now is when he feels truly naked.

Threatened.

His gun isn’t that far away, but pillows are great for suffocating, and smashing one of the lamps or the tumbler for the scotch would be easy enough. Handicapped by a broken arm, a Double-Oh of 004’s calibre would -

“Perhaps,” Q says evenly, “but then, I’ve been told that I have an unhealthy fondness for weapons with no safety protocol, so I doubt I’m the best person to ask.”

Bond suppresses a twitch, not precisely sure he’s catching every nuance and unhappy with it. Weapons with no safety protocol, hmm? Maybe 004 does have a reckless streak hidden somewhere beneath that prim, proper, pliant exterior after all. “Q, was that a compliment?”

“Only if you really need one.” With that, Q straightens up, relaxed air disappearing in the work of a moment. Time to get down to business then.

He tilts the laptop slightly so 007 has a better line of sight. To the upper left is a large, blown-up picture of Clodius’ passport. It’s far clearer than MI6’s intel, showcasing distinct Caucasian features along with a severe nose and a double-chin.

“‘Glenn Lowell’ first arrived in Japan two weeks ago on November 26th via Luxair from Luxembourg. He presented this passport, which was issued five months ago and states he’s a 35-year-old male born in Varde, Denmark on August 20th. If you look into his credentials...”

More typing causes a website to pop up. It’s a very bland, uninteresting page in shades of brown with a black title of _CONSTANCE CO._ , but that’s all 007 has the opportunity to observe before a box in bright red shows up overtop in the middle of the screen.

**WARNING: VIRUS DETECTED. NEUTRALIZING…**

“...then you’ll encounter this. Charming thing. It’s meant to take over your computer, shut it down, and wipe all your data. Not the best experience for your average internet snooper.”

“Embedded in the website?” asks Bond. It’s a rather force-heavy way of keeping innocent civilians from poking around and discover the farce of the cover story, but it’s brutally effective in a way he can appreciate.

“Yes. Nasty piece of work.”

With the virus counter-program still working, they’re stagnant, work-wise, and so Bond can afford to ask in the most impertinent manner possible, “Can you take care of it?” When the only reason 004 is even on this mission is because he’s meant to be good with computers.

“And here we were doing so well,” Q comments and doesn’t bother answering such an insulting query. “According to the paperwork, Mr Lowell is a senior software developer employed by Constance. He’s here to further advance his skills and do some networking.”

007 smirks, sardonic. “Aren’t they all? Present company included.”

“Agreed,” Q says, a world of insult behind the one word. The box abruptly turns white and black words appear:

**NEUTRALIZED. TAKE FURTHER ACTION?**

Q simply types ‘NO’ and the box disappears along with the website. He proceeds to pull up pictures of men in substandard suits, some with sunglasses, others with tattoos, and a large number with both. “The Sumiyoshi-kai, second-largest yakuza group in Japan.”

“And next, you’re going to tell me that our Mr Toya is one of them,” 007 guesses, more on pure intuition and experience than on fact.

“Afraid so.” On the screen, a picture of a middle-aged Japanese man with deep forehead wrinkles and sideburns appears next to a picture of a middle-aged Japanese woman with curly hair and blood-red lipstick. “Seiji Toya and his wife, Kimiko Toya. Mr Toya is 58 years old, born in Tokyo to a poor family, and has been a member of Sumiyoshi-kai for 30 years. Delinquent in his youth, arrested twice, courtesy of a poorly-hidden knife and a drawn gun, and didn’t graduate secondary school. Married for 34 years and close advisor to the Sumiyoshi-kai’s Boss.”

“And Mrs Toya?”

“55 years old, born in Osaka to a middle-class family, older sister of Megumi Yamamoto. Model student but was involved in four car crashes and reported for underage smoking twice in adolescence. There was a missing persons report filed on her a month before her marriage.”

“Could be helpful.” The good men, the _smart_ men, work as partners with their wives, but it’s amazing what the wife of a misogynistic man knows. Either way, Bond is a master of convincing his marks to give up valuable information in-between moans and pleas.

Q sighs. “Now, why was I afraid you would say that?”

* * *

Q’s never been one for formal wear, though he knows full well there's a certain advantage to looking posh and he’s been told multiple times that his arse looks fantastic in a pair of well-fitted trousers.

If 007 wants to tidy up in one of his customary tuxedos, then good for him. 004 is quite happy with his white button-up and thick grey suit jacket, ta very much. It’s bloody chilly at this time of year, and while Bond may be willing to play bonfire, Q has always had poor circulation and would rather not freeze.

His entire outfit appears to be untailored and relatively cheap so as to retain the element of surprise, which means he’s eyeing the ugly lines of his black trousers when a beep alerts him to movement from the front door. A mouse would have made more noise, but then again, there’s no need to insult mice.

A glance at the clock shows it’s exactly ten minutes to their reservation. And here Q was under the impression that Bond couldn’t be punctual to save his life.

Idly slipping a modified taser into his left pocket and a gun into his shoulder holster, he downs the last drains of his tea - authentic English Breakfast, of course; he makes a point of bringing at least twenty bags on each trip - before leaving the bathroom.

Utterly unprepared for the sight that greets him, Q almost punches the man in the face entirely on principle. Just to mess him up a little because.

Because, honestly, _fuck_ _him._

Flaunting a dark blue tuxedo jacket over a crisp white shirt with a black bow tie and black trousers, all beautifully tailored, the most infuriating smirk stretched across his lips, Bond looks both good enough to eat and entirely overdressed for a dinner among ‘friends’.

Q keeps his face a mask of bland annoyance, although he suspects his dilated pupils give him away. He wants to say something suitably insulting. Unfortunately, chances are high that his lips and tongue will only agree on babbled gibberish or mumbled compliments, so he refrains from opening his mouth at all.

Discretion is the better part of valour.

To add salt to the wound, the glint in his eyes says 007 is fully cognizant of how gorgeous he is and much too smug about it. “Good evening, William,” he drawls, giving Q a leisurely once-over from where he leans against the wall. “You look...nice. Tell me, did you try very, very hard?”

Q fingers the taser in his hand thoughtfully.

There are pros and cons to leaving Bond flailing around on the floor for a good minute. Not the best way to prove his worth as a Double-Oh admittedly, especially with an unknown amount of time left on this mission with a vengeful 007, but the satisfaction would be so sweet.

Granted, the situation could easily be turned against him. Q’s just woken up from a three-hour nap, and he’s always sluggish after sleeping. Going up against 007, who’s no pushover, in this state probably isn’t the best idea.

004 sighs and reluctantly lets go of the taser to run a hand through his expertly-styled - and just-messy-enough - hair. He hasn’t had enough tea for this. “Why, are you trying to impress?”

“Are you not impressed? All my hard work’s come to a waste then,” Bond teases coolly, perfectly vigilant as Q secures the room and then places it under lockdown with his phone. He’s trying to find a loophole. Probing for a weakness.

004 considers informing 007 that his phone has multiple layers of security and some lovely surprises as well but decides not to. If Bond wants to go poking around in Q’s technology, then he deserves what’s coming to him.

“Try harder next time,” advises Q. He heads straight towards the elevators, feeling his way towards the persona he'll be wearing this evening.

Ambitious, plays video games on the weekend, complete introvert, a benevolent but demanding taskmaster, no wife and children. Turned thirty-one this year, a master’s degree in computer science from UCL, bullied as a child, unfailingly polite and professional at work.

William has had… ‘questionable’ encounters with Mr Saris in the past and would like to prevent a scene on this trip. The Hanabi conference is important, might even be able to get him a raise or a promotion.

Subtly, his shoulders tense and his back curves, just a little. His strides become a bit shorter, less fluid, a mite bit awkward. Sliding his hand into his left pocket, he retrieves a pair of black wide-rimmed glasses and slips them on before returning his hands to his pockets.

William Adams is harmless, helpless. He presses the elevator button and steps back, almost bumping straight into James Saris, who bends his head down to whisper, “Not bad. I like the glasses.” Saris’ breath is hot against his earlobe, and William can’t help the goosebumps.

Q’s instinctive reaction would be to ram his elbow into 007’s side, but William thinks helplessly of HR’s policies and merely grits his teeth and takes a step to the side. “Thank you, Mr Saris, but they’re not for sale,” he says instead.

A muscle jumps in Bond’s jaw but the elevator dings, cutting off his retort. William steps in quietly and backs himself into the corner, the walls cold and steady at his back. Swiping out his phone from his right pocket, he busies himself with beating his high score at Tetris. It’s easy to feign obliviousness, every bit as dead to the world as a child with a toy.

From the corner of his eye, Q watches Bond smile, charming and unthreatening, the lines of his face relaxing all at once. The combat-ready tension in his body unwinds like a spring with ridiculous ease. A spread of his feet, a knowing tilt of his head, and suddenly he’s not 007 anymore but a charismatic marketing consultant with a wife, no children, tremendously successful if an incorrigible flirt with no appreciation for personal space.

Q reminds himself that he is more assuredly _not_ envious and almost believes it, too.

“Footsteps,” James reminds lightly just as they touch down on the 41st floor with a soft swoosh. He steps out with a confident swagger not so very different from his usual strut without waiting for a response.

Q mentally curses himself, because damn it, 007’s right and a mistake like that could get him killed, get them both killed. He also cheerfully resolves to spam Bond’s email with elderly home ads because he might be right but he’s still an utter bastard.

William follows, carefully maintaining a professional distance between them.

The sounds of their footsteps echo down the hallway. Normal people don’t walk like ghosts.

They’re greeted at the doorway by a waiter dressed in traditional Japanese garb. He promptly leads them to a discrete table near the massive windows within view of the door after a murmured suggestion from Saris.

Outside, the night’s long since fallen, leaving sparkling lights and a beautiful view of Mount Fuji. Kozue is warm colours and crisp lines, organized formations and a preciseness that appeals to William’s logical nature.

There are two exits he pinpoints immediately: the main entrance and the kitchen door. The windows are hazardous and not a likely escape route. Not without some sort of rope anyway.

None of the waiters he can see are trained in combat, unarmed, and his side of the room has well-occupied customers who talk and laugh quietly amongst themselves, none of them setting off his instincts either. A secure environment, for the time being.

Aesthetically, splashes of colour flare here and there: a potted plant blessed with vibrant green, a hung monochrome painting, the dark red plate in front of him.

And -

“How romantic,” Saris murmurs, eyeing the small, cheerily burning candle in the middle of the table between them with amusement. He makes no move to indicate he saw anything suspicious on his side of the room either. “Am I to take this for a sign?”

“That the service here is spectacular? Yes, I suppose so,” William says as their waitress arrives with two menus. She serves them tea with graceful movements and retreats before Saris can get a flirtatious word in. “Seeing as you’re so openly appreciative, I’ll be sure to leave the tip to you.”

“Now, now.” Saris merely smiles with a coaxing air. “There’s no need for that. Which of us has a family to provide for?”

“Me. I have a mortgage and two cats to feed.” William flips open his menu and surveys familiar kanji. He has a fondness for blowfish, particularly fugu. Maybe he’ll suggest the dish to his dear coworker.

Saris glances over his menu, fingers tapping idly against the table in a very distracting rhythm. “Yeah, that sounds like you, alright. Shame. I hate cats. It’s the only thing my wife and I don’t agree on. And I was so looking forward to the friendly dinners together.”

“And how would you have explained me to your wife?” If she had actually existed, Q would have felt sorry for her, doomed to deal with such a promiscuous, cheating bastard of a husband for the rest of her life.

“Explained? Why would I have needed to explain anything?” Saris asks, all deriding innocence.

Q tells himself that he needs to hold his tongue. William isn’t the type for confrontations, would most definitely not start an argument in a widely-respected restaurant like Kozue, which also happens to be in the hotel where they’re staying…

Oh, fuck it.

“Are we pretending those three sexual harassment reports don’t exist?”

“Only three?” Saris chuckles and flips his menu closed, apparently having made up his mind on his order while they were ‘debating’. “I must not like you as much as I thought I did then.”

“Quite right.” Now properly irritated, William also closes his menu, although he has no idea what he’s going to order. Good thing Q actually does have an eidetic memory. “I hear Elizabeth from Accounting has fifteen in her file and a restraining order in her drawer.”

Saris’ left brow engages in the most minuscule of twitches, the progress of which William follows with an unholy amount of glee. “Fifteen seems like a rather excessive number, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. Certainly not after Berlin.” With 006 and the Tragedy of the Rocket-Shoes that Will Not Be Spoken Of, as codenamed by the Q-Branch minions.

That gets him a slight, coy tilt of the head. “And what do you know about Berlin?”

“Barely anything,” Q lies. “You know how the office grapevine goes.” Actually, most of what he knows was offered freely by Moneypenny during one of the casual, off-duty agent pub parties, and the rest came from some discreet hacking but Bond doesn’t need to know that.

There’s a deliberate pause, perhaps three seconds, before Bond’s smile turns chilly with warning and his fingers fall still. “What with your insider knowledge of Miss Elizabeth and my business trips, I’m starting to think you’ve been sticking your pretty fingers where they shouldn’t be.”

A chill crawls down Q’s back, a reminder that he’s playing with another predator, baiting a monster with even more kills to his name than himself. But he hasn’t gotten where he is by backing down, so William just smiles back blandly. “Nothing of that sort, believe me.”

“Tall order.” Belief and trust aren’t synonyms, not entirely, but they’re too similar for any agent to be comfortable.

“I’m sure you’re up to it, Mr Saris. Your track record speaks for itself.” In terms of explosions, corpses, and broken hearts, he would mention, but civilian ears could be listening in.

“Maybe you should be checking out something other than my record.” Saris leers playfully, leaning forward so the candlelight dances across his face, blue eyes burning like the flames that follow him around.

Q reminds himself sternly that he’s not one of the idiots who can’t learn from their own mistakes and says through a too-dry throat, “And what do you suggest, Mr Saris?”

“My taste, for one.” Saris winks at him and turns to wave forward the waitress, who has been covertly standing three metres away for the past five seconds, waiting with a patient smile. “Thanks for waiting.”

And just like that, the heat’s gone, worn away into annoyance. It would be enough to give anyone else whiplash, but Q simply wrestles down the urge to destroy 007’s bank accounts and maybe shred some of his suits.

“It was no problem.” Stepping smoothly up to their table, notebook in hand and pen at the ready, she politely inquires what they would like to order, English rough with a heavy Japanese accent but perfectly understandable.

“A grilled snow crab with shiitake and prime tuna with steamed rice and soft scrambled egg,” Saris orders confidently before William even opens his mouth. “No need to split the bill.”

Q doesn’t glare a hole through the insolent, arrogant man’s head. _Doesn’t_ , no matter how much he wants to. William wouldn’t do that, no, William smiles courteously at the waitress and says, “Red bean soup with potato dumpling and thinly sliced fugu salami for me, please.”

“Of course.” She glides away with a quick assurance that their food will be up right away, and it’s then that movement by the door catches Q’s attention. He’s not facing the door, though and his peripheral view doesn’t extend that far.

Bond, who sits directly across Q, has far more luck. His fingers start moving again, this time from his left hand, light and distracting on William’s knee. He’s tracing letters, and a quick glance at his watch confirms that they’re right on schedule.

T-A-R-G-E-T_T-O-Y-A_+5

Lovely. Clodius here for his dinner with Mr Toya and five goons acting as bodyguards. It’s a good thing Q didn’t expect a quiet life, because, from the subtle way 007’s shifted his body weight so he has better access to his gun, they’re all armed, too.

William adjusts his glasses and says, “So, Mr Saris, what do you know about the new security system we installed for Turing and Clarke?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to us on tumblr at [opalescentgold](https://opalescentgold.tumblr.com/) and [faerieoftara](https://faerieoftara.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thanks so much to the team of wonderful people who beta-ed this for us and listened to us - mostly Opal - whine and sob about how writing is hard. This has been our baby for almost a year and while we're nowhere near done, Opal was just too impatient to continue writing without posting a chapter first. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome.


	2. non ducor duco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i am led, i lead._

There’s a certain amount of skill that goes into talking about nothing.

Few people think so, but Bond isn’t a secret agent because he lets these things pass him by. One can learn just as much by what’s unsaid as what’s said. Let someone talk long enough, and something will inevitably slip.

That’s human nature.

Experience has taught him that most specialists have their own style, a certain flourish to their work that acts as a signature. It appears in their words, too, the way they speak of their art, the way they speak of other people’s work.

(Vesper didn’t like her coworkers or her boss, but she enjoyed speaking of numbers and the satisfaction of doing her job quickly, efficiently, and better than anyone else. When excited, her beautiful hands would flutter expressively, like butterflies, and he misses her still.)

004 hasn’t quite learned the trick yet, but then, that’s possibly to their advantage.

The nonexistent security system he’s been rambling on about for the last ten minutes, straight through the arrival of their food, is intricate, detailed, with multiple layers, fail-safes, and functions for each ‘Turing and Clarke’ employee.

Everything has been woven out of thin air, of course, and the display reveals far more about Q’s technological skills than he likely intended. He’s good, but then Bond knew that already, knew that when M chose him for this mission, chose him to be the new 004.

Traditionally, 007s are the sizzle and burn of MI6’s personal brand, the iron fist of Queen and Country, but the 004s are the shadows, juggling missiles and always, always watching from up high, where they balance on tightropes of razor-sharp science.

The previous 004 specialized in sneaking past enemy lines to steal and reverse-engineer their breakthroughs before they even had the chance to hit the field, with the occasional dabble in signal and imagery intelligence.

From this conversation, Bond learns that this new 004 is familiar with the majority of computer networks, has extensive knowledge of coding languages, and is a bloody genius, for all that his imaginary system is bland and common amongst computer companies like Turing and Clarke.

It takes actual IT Divisions months to create a security system. It takes 004 a few minutes, with nary a pause or two to divulge the fact that he’s thinking on his feet and making the whole thing up so as to give them the illusion of having a regular dinner as coworkers.

He loves it, too. The passionate delivery, the wild, _familiar_ gesturing with his hands - oh, but how Bond despises him - the pride of a manager; all agents know how to put on a good show, but 007 knows the difference between a performance and truth, and this is both, the formula for a perfect lie.

Which, again, raises the question of why Q is here and not basking in the adoration of the Q-Branch minions as their new deity, but he doubts 004 will answer that particular question anytime soon.

Bond hums and nods at the appropriate moments and discreetly keeps watching their targets, swallowing down the acid in his throat. They’ve settled into a table in the far corner of the room now, the walls cutting in at right angles concealing them from the majority of the restaurant.

But they’re nearly directly across from 007, and he has good eyesight. Good enough to lip-read in any case.

S-M-A-L-L-T-A-L-K, he traces onto Q’s knee. Clodius and Toya are smiling at each other (falsely) and shaking hands, all but talking about the weather. Boring.

“We strengthened the firewall, of course, but it took some time to troubleshoot after we implemented the program that ensures the system will handle user inputs the same way across...” Adams prattles on without a hitch.

Bond honestly lost track of the conversation five minutes ago. He smiles faintly and nods, passing off his lack of contribution by attending to his food in a civilized manner instead of the sporadic shove-and-rapidly-chew-and-swallow method Q has been employing.

Meanwhile, Clodius and Toya are flipping through their menus and talking idly about what looks good. 007 glances around, disinterested, and not trying to hide it. He checked all the occupants on his side of the room for anything suspicious earlier, but there’s no harm in doing so again.

Besides, at the rate his actual targets are going, even normal folk are bound to be more interesting.

An old Japanese couple smile at each other adoringly two tables down. Next to them, a middle-aged Caucasian man with the most ridiculous cheekbones and dark curls jelled into submission rants at his patiently-smiling companion.

Across from them sits a beautiful young woman with pale skin and shoulder-length blonde curls. She flips through the menu, dressed in a gorgeous white dress. To her left, a middle-aged Japanese man blushes at something his date, eyes dancing with mischief, said.

“-at do you think, Mr Saris?” Adams’ voice calls his attention back, where a single flick of green eyes tells Bond what Q wants.

Bond takes a sip of his tea and lets his eyes wander over to where they should have been. Clodius and Toya are placing their orders with their waiter, and as Bond watches, they both settle into their chairs, armed with cups of sake, and he knows their real order of business will start soon.

“Have you considered my proposition, Mr Toya?” Clodius says from across the room, easily understandable by 007’s mouth-reading abilities.

“Hmm. I’ve thought about it. You understand, this isn’t how we do things here in Japan.”

“You do business. And this _is_ business, is it not?”

Toya opens his mouth, and one of the bodyguards lounging around in one of the small tables nearby glances around, shoulders tensing. Bond wrenches his gaze back towards Q, who is still rambling on, a second before their eyes would have met. He knows it’s too late however.

Damn it.

Already, that one bodyguard’s unease is spreading to his colleagues, who seated themselves in a semi-circle around their boss when they first arrived, and one of the smarter ones bodily carries his table a few meters to plop down directly in front of Toya and Clodius.

A meat shield. Not particularly charming or subtle but certainly effective. His line of sight blocked, Bond doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about now.

T-R-O-U-B-L-E, Bond writes out on Q’s leg.

004 breaks off from his spiel to yawn loudly and widely, twisting in his chair with the movement in a way that’ll allow him to catch a glimpse of what’s been basically going on behind his back. “Excuse me,” he says with an edge of abashment, “I didn’t realize I’m so tired.”

“Insomnia?” Not particularly sure where Q is leading this but willing to play along for now, James’ smile is full of friendly concern with a hint of too-charming oiliness. It’s a problem that generally only occurs with green agents and slick bastards, but he’s a good actor.

“I’ve slept terribly these past days,” Adams admits with a self-deprecating smile. “It’s not the most ideal of circumstances; I tripped over my own feet yesterday.” His eyes dart down to his teacup and then back up.

On Bond’s hand, Q traces, B-U-G.

Ah. 007 decides to give him the benefit of the doubt, just this once, and assumes he doesn’t mean something’s abruptly and unbearably triggered a previously unknown case of entomophobia.

“Have some tea then. I have it on good opinion that tea is a particular favourite of yours.” According to Moneypenny and the few Q-Branch minions he managed to alternatively bribe and threaten into giving out information on MI6’s newest pet spy before leaving MI6.

Adams blinks innocently at him. “But I’ve already drunk all of mine, I’m afraid.” He tilts his teacup towards James, showcasing the empty porcelain.

“Allow me,” James says smoothly, smirking. He picks up their teapot and stands up, leaning over the table to fill Adams’ cup, and a slight jerk of his elbow is all it takes to knock his untouched glass of ice water off the table.

He briefly considered simply splashing the steaming hot tea in 004’s lap but decided against it. God only knows how much of a hassle 004 would be were he injured. Carting around a complaining and deadweight partner isn’t how he wants to spend the rest of this mission.

As expected, Adams - _004 -_ has the necessary reflexes to jump backwards, the screech of chair on wood earsplitting. Still, he’s not fast enough, and the water splashes onto the cuffs of his sleeves and spills all over his hands.

“Shit - !” he hisses, alarm plastered firmly on his face.

007 considers informing him later that subtlety is a key component to realistic acting that wasn’t discussed much during their basic training but dismisses the thought. Most everyone in the restaurant is looking at them, and this is exactly what they need: a distraction both entirely attention-catching and utterly innocuous. A mistake between coworkers.

If 004 survives long enough, he’ll learn the rest on his own.

“Christ, I’m so sorry, William,” James apologises with a facade of complete sincerity, already reaching for his napkin in an attempt to handle the water stain already spreading up Adam’s sleeves. “Looks like you’re not the only clumsy one here.”

Adam’s smile is gorgeously strained, the fixed look everyone knows signifies a public obligation to be polite but not at all a personal inclination to. “It’s - fine, Mr Saris. Fine. Accidents...happen. I’ll be just a moment, please excuse me.”

He carefully stands up and walks away, towards the bathroom they both know is located near the back of the restaurant and behind their targets. The bodyguards eye 004 suspiciously as he passes, gait awkward with a contrite smile, milking every stereotype of the bumbling tourist.

James sprawls back in his chair, right hand casually resting near his hip holster and left hand drumming on the table in an expression of boredom and a few centimetres away from the still mostly-full teapot, which is excellent projectile material. He’s had missions go to hell in a handbasket this early on in the game, but it’s debatable whether 004 has. 007 didn’t have nearly enough time to research his partner before being sent out to Japan.

If the boy flounders, well, 007’s responsibilities only go so far.

However, although they tense and position themselves in much the same way 007 has but with far more inconspicuousness, the hired guns don’t do anything but scowl ferociously at Adams as he passes. Appropriately, Adams’ smile grows more and more nervous with each step he takes. Finally, he stumbles a little right as the most muscular of the bodyguards shifts forward abruptly as if intending to do something untoward.

007 is watching as closely as he possibly can without drawing any further attention to them, but even he doesn’t see 004 plant the bug.

At least he’s good at _something_.

Shoulders tense, Adams disappears into the bathroom, both Clodius and Toya barely sparing him a second of attention when he passes their table. 007 maintains watch, but no one seems to have noticed anything wrong.

He sips his water, casually admiring the view outside their window, which is really quite spectacular: the silhouette of Mount Fuji looming in the distance, the lights of the city lighting up the night sky, the unrelenting drive of humanity to overwhelm even the stars.

Conversation has long since resumed, their waitress appearing with a mop and calmly waving off his apologies. They’re going to have rely entirely on that little thing to get the info they need, eavesdropping clearly not an option. Although, if the bug doesn’t work, it’ll be nice to have something with which he can properly chastise his dear partner with.

Movement recaptures his attention, and James doesn’t turn his head but monitors Adams’ progress through the shark-infested waters from the corner of his eye, alert and ready for action. Nothing happens, though, and Adams drops into his cleaned seat perfectly safe and sound.

007 is vaguely disappointed.

“Everything alright?” he asks, covering up his restlessness with feigned concern. “I really am sorry; I didn’t mean to ruin our evening with such a clumsy accident.”

Adams waves it off, having clearly soaked up the liquid somewhat. He’s rolled up his sleeves, but the colour disparity shows signs of dryer-use. “Don’t worry about it. We all have our off-days, don’t we?” He smiles mildly.

Off-days, huh? James smiles back like a predator with sharp teeth, wandering focus suddenly wholly centred on this amusing upstart. No one’s watching them or close enough to eavesdrop, and he might as well have some fun. “I don’t know much about that, although you could be a veritable expert, couldn’t you?”

“What do they like to say? Jack of all trades, master of none?”

“You forgot the last part, but then most people do. What _are_ they teaching nowadays?”

Q narrows his eyes minutely. Bond’s caught him by surprise. “Careful not to sound too bitter there, Mr Saris, or I’ll get worried. What last part?”

Bond doesn’t try and keep the amusement from his voice as he quotes, “Jack of all trades, master of none, but better than a master of one.”

“Are you trying to imply that I’m a master of one?”

“Are you?”

“Am I a master? Well, it would depend on the day. Or night, I suppose.” Q drinks his tea, supremely nonchalant for such a dirty remark in the midst of a crowded restaurant, much less in conservative Japan in the first place.

It’s Bond’s turn to be surprised. He doesn’t twitch, because he’s a sodding professional, but he stares at Q for possibly two seconds too long, startled. He knew from the password incident that Q can hold his own in games of seduction but this is more than mere response.

This is initiating the game, and who is he to say no to an invitation like that?

“Are you even old enough to be one? Or are those the types of games you like to play when you need your hands on the reins for once?” Bond leans back in his chair, sprawling deliberately, decadently, with an idle air, legs falling apart and arms braced on the armrests.

He looks fuckable like this, and he knows it, and he watches Q press his lips together. A second later, he’s treated to a slow, lazy smile that, much as he hates to admit it, turns Q into a creature that is also pretty damn fuckable.

If anyone’s watching them, they can just put it down as a sleazy businessman trying to seduce his coworker.

“Age has nothing to do with it. Even old dogs can learn new tricks.” In contrast to his relaxed position, Q leans forward, arms resting on the table and hair falling into his eyes carelessly, legs crossed with casual elegance.

Bond chuckles. “Are you the trainer who wants desperately to teach those old dogs how to behave? Out of, what, pity? Entitlement? Insecurity? I hear they’re stubborn and ill-tempered and have a tendency to bite, so maybe you should rethink your plans.”

“Lucky for us then that I find a good bite...intellectually stimulating under specific circumstances, isn’t it? I’m afraid I can’t say I would make a competent trainer for your old dogs, though. I like my pets to purr under my touch.”

Bond resists the urge to raise an eyebrow and whistle. Always the quiet ones, huh? “More of a cat person then?” He smirks, slow and knowing, shifting forward so that he mirrors Q, their faces suddenly a mere quarter of a metre apart. “How many scratching posts do you have?”

Q blinks twice, eyelashes fluttering against his pale skin. He sits back and takes a sip of cold tea, breaking the tension between them with ease, and says, flawlessly polite, “Why do you want to know, Mr Saris? Are you looking for a cat of your own?”

James’ smirk morphs into an equally professional face, even as he senses the slight shift in wind against the nape of his neck that indicates someone’s passing behind him, probably a server if 004’s not making a fuss about it. “Hardly. Cats are more to my wife’s preference than mine. I can’t believe I married a cat lover, can you?”

It’s a lie. He never talked about cats with her.

(“Did you ever have any pets?”

“I had a dog when I was a child. You?”

“No...but when we get to Venice, let’s get a bunny.”

“A bunny?”

“I’ve always wanted a bunny.” She laughs, bright and beautiful and beloved under the bright sunlight.)

“Absolutely not. How horrendous. A true nightmare,” Adams says with a straight face, the sarcastic little shit, eyes discreetly sliding to the side as he tracks the interloper’s trek away from them. And then, with a casual dagger of disdain, “I suppose you must be a dog person then?”

Civilian’s gone then. “What’s not to like?” Bond gracefully finishes off the last of his dinner, which was really quite good, and settles down again, ears still ringing with laughter he’ll never get to hear again. “They’re strong, helpful, dependable, and loyal.”

Q scoffs, quirking an unimpressed eyebrow. “Pretty words for dumb muscle, unnecessary thick-headedness, and blind devotion.”

It takes Bond more effort than it should to keep the strain out of his smile. “Oh, and cats are so much better?”

“Of course.” Q mops up the rest of his plate, messy and yet somehow genteel. “Cats are independent, smart enough to actually think about what they do, and take care of themselves.”

“You mean creatures who turn on their owners at the drop of a dime, are arrogant to the point of stupidity, and are better off in the streets rather than living indoors as pets?” Bond shoots back, finishing off his tea with a flick of his wrist.

A too-fast motion in the far corner of his vision snatches his attention away. A goon is talking into his walkie-talkie, shoulders tense. Toya has stood up abruptly, turning away from Clodius with the clear intention to leave, but before he can do so, Clodius leans forward, speaking intently.

Toya freezes. And slowly sits back down, looking intrigued.

Promising. Toya’s bodyguards don’t look particularly pleased, but no guns are out yet, so Bond doesn’t tip Q off.

Not that he seems to need to. “Mr Saris? Should we go?” Adams questions, glancing at their empty plates. Their waitress has been tossing quick little glances at them for the past three minutes, clearly trying to determine whether they’d like the check or not.

Bond decides that they should definitely play poker soon. He can’t have his skills rusting like so. “You don’t want dessert first?” James says with a coaxing smile. “Or a trip to the restroom after all of that tea?” By which he means that they can’t leave the bug here where it can be found.

Q’s eye twitches slightly. Bond is unreasonably cheerful about it. “Oh, I think I can survive,” Adams replies airily. He beckons the waitress forward, who, with nearly an audible sigh of relief, steps forward to take their plates.

“Would you like the dessert menu, sirs?”

“Yes, please.” Adams’ smile is remarkably...sweet, and in the soft glow of the restaurant lamps, the world outside pitch black at last, he’s both an innocent boy and a KIA waiting to happen.

Bond can only be thankful that the lights aren’t blue, that Q’s outfit isn’t red, that the taste on his tongue isn’t caviar.

“You’re staring again.” Q’s voice, tart and soft in concession to the perked ears all around them, jolts Bond from cold, waterlogged memories.

He smirks, deliberately provocative, stuffing the sensory echo of the silkiness of that Algerian love knot between his fingers back into the bristling depths of his subconscious. “I told you, maybe you’re worth staring at.”

“But your poor wife!” Adams protests, scandal widening his eyes as their waitress returns with their menus. James grins shamelessly at their quietly sceptical waitress before perusing the dessert section.

“She’ll live,” he says, utterly careless. “Kudzu noodles for me, if you would.”

“Kudzu noodles for you.” Their waitress nods, writing the order down. “And you, sir?”

“Umm...the green tea and soy milk mousse, please.”

“It’ll be right out, sirs.”

“Drinking already?” Q asks lowly when she’s gone, disapproval in the furrow in his forehead.

It’s a mistake. As all of James Bond’s teachers and instructors found out, disapproval only goads the mischievous, rebellious boy who got thrown out of Eton College for fucking a maid in a supply closet and playing cards after curfew.

He could point out that the brandy the noodles are cooked in can’t possibly be more than a cup and that most of the alcohol will have evaporated by the time it reaches his plate. Bond says, instead, “What, can’t hold your liquor?”

“I’ve heard that being professional does have its uses,” Q notes dryly. “Don’t take my word for it though.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Is that a no then?” A predator sensing weakness, Bond’s focus sharpens though not a muscle on his face changes. 007 can drink men twice his weight under the table, and God knows how many drinking competitions 001 has won. It’s strange for an agent to have a low alcohol tolerance; no one likes a spy with a tongue easily plied by alcohol.

He wonders what 004 would tell him when drunk. He decides he really should find out and lazily starts making plans.

Q shrugs a bit stiffly. “That’s a ‘I don’t drink on the job’. Unlike some people, I’d rather not be mentally and physically impaired because I can’t come to terms with the past.” For all his mild-mannered look, his tone is vicious, and Bond knows he’s found a chink in that armour.

Cornered prey bite back the hardest. And 004 should never have crossed that line.

007’s smile is a beautiful jagged thing, lined with smug victory and laced with viper’s poison. “ _William_ ,” he purrs, “you know _nothing_ about my past. And if you know what’s good for yourself, you’ll never speak of it again.”

004’s eyes widen minutely, his shoulders rising two centimetres in instinctive defensiveness, but he lifts his chin, back straight as steel cables. “So sorry for poking that sore spot. Shall I order another drink for you as an apology? Or should that be five?”

“Can you even handle five drinks? I would hate to have to drag you out of this restaurant by the scruff of your neck. Would ruin both of our reputations, you see.” And Bond might dump him in with the trash.

He gets a distant, vague smile for his troubles. “Yes, of course, Mr Saris. I really like the direction our company is headed at the moment. The conference tomorrow night may even help my team improve our systems.”

Bond rather doubts it but doesn’t reply as their waitress returns, bearing their desserts on a small tray. Styled perfectly on a simple white plate, his noodles are translucent and slippery with a golden brown gleam from the brown sugar syrup and brandy. Adams’ dessert is similarly graceful and arranged masterfully.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to her as she leaves, receiving a nod and a smile in return.

Q’s already picked up his spoon and is starting to poke at his mousse with interest, apparently having elected to ignore the previous tension between them in favour of dessert. He scoops up a tiny amount of the fluffy green confection and licks it up delicately with a quick swipe of his tongue. It must prove satisfactory, because he closes his eyes and hums, dreamy pleasure suffusing his face.

Bond swallows, mouth suddenly very dry and unsuccessfully attempts to drag his eyes away. He’s angry, fucking furious with 004, but it’s difficult to remember why when those lips are so red and plush and now _shiny_ with saliva and a hint of mousse. They would look absolutely fantastic wrapped around his cock, and once the image crosses his mind, he can’t think about anything else.

The thing about adrenaline and violence is that the other side of the coin is sex and pleasure, and oftentimes, the body doesn’t much care which side the coin lands on as long as it gets the release it wants. 007 is used to playing this game of chance, and he cheats as much as he does at any other game, but it’s quickly apparent that he’s not the only one familiar with it here.

Almost helplessly, Bond wonders what sort of fellatio Q is prone to giving. Judging from the way the minx is savouring his dessert with slow, hedonistic decadence, taking only half a spoonful at a time and _licking_ in long, lazy swipes that derail any and all higher brain function, Q would be the worst tease.

No doubt he’d torment his partner with tongue and teeth and not nearly enough pressure. Although, from the manner in which he’s sucking that poor unfortunate spoon, just enough suction to drive a man out of his mind.

_Fuck._

Bond shifts in his seat but manages to force a wry smirk onto his face because he is both willing to recognise 004’s quick deflection of their argument and going to be damned if he lets this _boy_ win this game of theirs. “Enjoying yourself?”

Q glances up from his utter worship of his dessert to bat his eyelashes like a virginal Victorian maiden. “Yes, of course. Are you not?” he asks with faux innocence, nodding at Bond’s yet untouched dessert.

And oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing with that stunt. It’s a viable, if amateurish move, but not one that Bond is interested in falling for anytime soon.

Or at least, he’s not willing to show any signs of him falling for it.

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” Bond says dismissively. The _unlike you_ goes unsaid. “I prefer my meals to have a little more of a kick to them.”

“Spice?”

“Something like that.”

Q’s hum is amused and knowing, and he continues licking up his mousse but without the seductive effort from before, as if knowing he scored a point and that point’s all he’s getting. “Well, _I_ like sweet things, so if you’re not going to eat that, then may I?”

“Actually,” Bond deflects smoothly as he picks up his chopsticks, “I think I’ll make an exception today. The food here has been so phenomenal that I’m sure I won’t be disappointed by dessert.” He’s not being petty. Not being petty at all.

The slight clench of Q’s shoulders is the only tell that the dismissal struck its target before it’s loosened up in a careless shrug. “Suit yourself.” He goes back to eating his own dessert leisurely while Bond shows off his chopstick prowess by overcoming the slippery noodles.

He wasn’t lying either. The noodles are, as expected, quite sweet and delicious. He enjoys them thoroughly. If he could, he would get Q back for the mousse, but it has to be admitted that eating noodles sexily is beyond even James Bond’s extraordinary abilities.

Right as he’s finishing up, Q, who’s reverted to playing with his phone either as part of the cover or because he’s incapable of distracting himself without technology, straightens up subtly, eyes shifting to Bond’s left.

The sound of footsteps, slow and steady, comes not long after. An old couple passestheir table, heading towards the restroom, and 007 understands immediately. It’s as good an opening as any.

“Excuse me,” he says, rising to his feet.

Adams nods and is staring at his phone again when James passes him, but he’s turned in his chair so that he can see the entire scene from his peripheral vision if he pays attention. 007 isn’t particularly interested in depending on that in the event of an attack, though.

Toya and Clodius are engaged in a casual discussion, and while the yakuza treat him with wary looks, they can’t very well do anything with the old lady smiling at them with a grandmotherly air and the old man waving his walking stick. The Japanese have a long-standing culture of respecting the elderly, and the yakuza are most definitely Japanese, however tough they’d like to pretend otherwise.

It’s not at all hard to retrieve the bug as he’s heading back towards their table.

Adams blinks at him placidly as he slides into his seat. “We good?”

“Yes.” The vaguely pleased look on 004’s face is vexing. Luckily, their waitress is hovering, bill in hand, and so James smiles at Adams, blindingly friendly. “You know what? It’s been a long day, and I’ve had a great time with you, but I think I’ll be going to bed now. Good night, Mr Adams.”

And before Q has the chance to protest, Bond is out the door, chuckling to himself. Turnabout is fair play.

* * *

Q is fuming when he reaches the elevator. Not only was that bill absolutely atrocious - fancy food, fancy restaurant, fancy hotel; some part of him still winces at the price although MI6 pays for everything - the pitying looks he received from their waitress and the other patrons still make the tips of his ears burn.

True, he left Bond with the cab bill, but their cabbie’s in MI6’s pockets anyway. The bloody wanker left him with an _audience_ to witness his humiliation.

Scowling furiously, he jabs at the 46th button and breathes slowly through his nose in an attempt to calm himself down. Q won’t give Bond the satisfaction of knowing he got under Q’s skin, doesn’t want to see the little smug smirk he just knows Bond will give him if he sees Q in this state. That’d be admitting weakness, admitting loss, and Q refuses. He simply _refuses_.

His phone vibrates harshly in his pocket.

Q freezes. And instantly switches mindsets from Q, orphan, genius, criminal, and Adams, jilted professional, to 004, international spy in the midst of enemy territory. Clearing his mind of anything but the whisper of danger and his surroundings, the state-of-the-art data processor that’s his brain begins to whirl.

Cognizant of the camera in the corner watching him and Bond’s taunting words echoing in his ears, he shifts as he retrieves his phone so the screen isn’t visible and unlocks it with a combination of his fingerprint, a constantly changing password, and disables the failsafe before it can activate.

‘ **MOTION DETECTED** ’ is the first thing that comes up in a red pop-up box. Fuck. Someone’s in his room and set off the doorknob detector as they came in. 004 glances up at the elevator display - 43 - and dismisses the alarm, mind racing.

007 has his room key. What’s the probability that this intruder is 007 and not an enemy? If the latter’s true, then 007, who must be in his room by now if not in 004’s, should have noticed the trespass and gone to investigate unless he decided to take a shower again or blast rock music, both unlikely.

He could be walking into Bond’s little smug smirk or a fight. There’s also the chance that the enemy disposed of 007 first before breaking into his hotel room, but 004 hasn’t heard any commotion, and surely 007 would have at least gotten one explosion out before dying. He’d electrocute the enemy regardless of their identity, but unfortunately, that’s only possible when they’re leaving.

In any event, he’d best keep his guard up.

As the elevator arrives on his floor with a subtle jarring motion, 004 inwardly curses the soft _ding_ and steps out soundlessly. There’s no one in the hallway leading up to the elevator, and it’s grimly quiet. Gun in hand - and making a note to wipe the footage of this as soon as he gets his hands on his laptop - 004 presses his back against the wall and glances down the corridor before making his way to his room.

Silence but for the faint glow of light under the door crack. If 007’s actually dead, 004 is going to shoot him himself, because Christ knows he has a mutual hate relationship with Psych, and fifteen sessions will drive both him and his psychiatrist insane if they weren’t already crazy before.

004 inhales deeply, tense shoulders relaxing at last. Whatever remnants of anger or annoyance from his dinner with Bond have melted into bright, keen focus, adrenaline wiping away the unimportant minutiae of mundane life even as his awareness expands sharply, every sense on alert.

This is what he lives for.

The slightly-elevated beat of his heart in his ears and the comforting weight of his gun in his hand, he unlocks the door and walks in.

The lamp in the main area of the suite is on, but the short hallway leading up to it is mostly dark. He can’t see anyone from this position, which doesn’t say much but significantly narrows down the location of his trespasser. 004 stalks forward, gun raised and settled firmly in his stance. At the very end, right out of the line of sight of the intruder, he keeps his back to the wall and his weight on the balls of his feet.

Calm and steady and whiplash quick, 004 pivots and finds himself aiming his gun at Bond’s little smug smirk.

“You didn’t check the bathroom,” the tosser has the nerve to chide him, splayed out casually on the bed with his hands behind in his head and Q’s laptop next to him, vents unprotected and making distressed noises.

Q can’t possibly convey how unamused and homicidal he is. No, wait, he _can_. “I should shoot you on principle.”

“If I wasn’t as benevolent as I am, you would be dead right now,” Bond informs him disdainfully.

Q snorts and holsters his gun reluctantly. A gunshot will attract attention, and that’s the last thing they need, no matter how much he wants to murder 007. Leftover adrenaline singing sweet and dizzying in his veins, he draws on whatever remaining patience he has left and says, “Doubtful. I left the bathroom door open at a 7-degree angle, and that hasn’t changed. Unless you’re a contortionist, there’s no way you could have even touched the bathroom door without me knowing.”

Bond flicks him a nonchalant but very flat look. “Or...you could check the bathroom and save yourself the trouble and the bullet wounds.”

Q grits his teeth and strolls around the bed to rescue his poor laptop. “What, exactly, did you do? I’ll politely remind you that my laptop has done nothing to deserve this treatment, and I _told_ you that trying to get through my security is futile.”

Bond rolls onto his side to watch him, perfectly at ease and practically boneless. It’s insulting, is what it is, how smoothly those strong muscles rolled beneath that exquisitely tailored suit, not even remotely tense nor fussed, like he had fun at the spa recently, like 004 isn’t the slightest threat at all.

Q presses his lips together and focuses on his laptop, which informs him that Bond was trying to hack in but didn’t succeed and so instead threw in a nasty bit of code that’s driving his system to run around in circles and exhaust itself. It’s nothing Q won’t be able to subvert easily, clearly just a distraction method, but he supposes he should keep in mind that 007 has at least intermediate coding skills. “You could have stopped when you realised you have as much hope of hacking in as the CIA have of keeping me out.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

“A happier laptop and a happier 004,” he answers promptly.

Bond smirks, amused. “Well, there you go. The two situations most devoid of fun I can think of off the top of my head.”

“Have you considered what that might indicate about your imagination?” Q inquires, settling in the mahogany chair and placing his laptop on the matching table. Careful to angle himself so he can see 007 from the corner of his eye, he starts dismantling Bond’s code with ease.

“Oh, my imagination’s fine, I assure you,” Bond says in a most reassuring fashion, and then, with a world of innuendo housed inside his abruptly low, rough voice, akin to the wrap of coarse rope over bare skin, “Would you like a demonstration, Q?”

Q stares fixedly at his laptop screen and ignores the sliver of heat in his veins, thankful he chose to put distance between them, even if it was with the initial intention of not killing 007. “I’d rather not,” he says with the most nonchalance he can manage. “I do so hate being disappointed.”

The rustle of the bed unwittingly drags Q’s eyes to Bond, his defensive training too strong to be defeated by such cursory things as lust and anger and pride. Bond’s smirking at him, now sitting upright against the headboard, legs spread wide like the worst kind of tease. “I don’t disappoint,” he states confidently.

Q wants fiercely to prove Bond wrong, just from spite, but to do so would require some incredibly unprofessional behaviour, and he’s above such things. He _is_ , no matter what the heat flush in his veins might suggest. “I have high expectations.”

“I’ll meet them,” and there’s a challenge in there, in the lazy eyebrow raised, “or is that exactly what you’re afraid of?”

“If you think that I’m afraid of you,” Q says as he logs in properly, “then I’d say you possess more delusion than imagination, 007.”

“What about a good grasp on probability and the ability to correctly assess an individual’s threat level?” Bond replies, deceptively lazy about it. “Are you familiar with those traits? I thought they taught them in the first week of training.”

“They did.” Q lets his tone say the rest. “Do you, by chance, still have the bug? Or did you lose it on your way here?”

“I can’t possibly say for sure.” Bond reaches into his pocket and tosses the equipment at Q’s face, although he doesn’t seem perturbed when Q grabs it out of the air without blinking. “Check that, would you? Maybe, for once, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Since the tech in his hand is obviously the bug he designed, Q doesn’t deign to answer that. He boots up the program on his computer and syncs the bug. “Do be quiet for this part,” he says absently as the audio file loads. “I’d hate to have to do this twice.”

“I wouldn’t worry about me if I were you,” is the snide response.

Q doesn’t roll his eyes, because he is a professional and proud of it. He does, however, infuse his “mm-hm” with the utmost scepticism and click play on the file before Bond can counter. There’s a bit of static and then Toya’s voice comes through loud and clear.

“...how disgraceful. One of yours?”

“No, not at all. Just a clumsy tourist. He’s not important.”

It takes a moment for Q to realise they’re talking about him. Ironically, he figures it out by looking at Bond’s stupid smirk. Q glares, silently daring Bond to make a comment. Bond’s obnoxious blue eyes dance.

“Very well. This...Pluto that you speak of. What can it offer the Sumiyoshi-kai?”

“Drugs of the highest quality. Ecstasy. Cocaine. Heroin. Ketamine. Morphine. Triflimide. Meth. Marijuana. All for the lowest prices and with no chance of being traced back to you nor us. Sell it to the locals, create addicts, and you could be making millions.”

“And? Is that it? I know of four such suppliers. If you are wasting my time - ”

“I would never dare. For the right price, we’ve also been known to sell weapons.”

A disdainful sneer. “And again, I say I know of eight such suppliers. I will not sit and listen to this drivel any longer - ” There’s the scrape of a chair being knocked back and then Clodius’ smooth voice once more.

“Perhaps, but I doubt any of your eight suppliers offer sarin and mustard gas.”

 _Shit_. Q stares at Bond, who stares back, the two of them on the same page for once. Drugs are one thing; chemical weapons are quite another, much less Schedule 1 substances. How the hell did Pluto get their hands on these things?

There’s a pause and then the scrape of the chair once more as Toya sits down again. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not so stupid as to lie.”

“That is debatable. So you say you have these weapons. What exactly would we do with them? We are not planning on waging war with our government.”

“No, but what about the Yamaguchi-gumi?”

A thoughtful hum, and oh, Q can see where this is going already. “They are our rivals. But we do not seek war with them either.”

“But they could declare war on _you_ ,” Clodius points out, warm and sweet as honey but poisonous as arsenic. “Their numbers are greater than yours, their weapons more numerous, their banks fuller. Isn’t the nature of yakuza gangs survival-of-the-fittest? In the event of a battle, would you not prefer to have the gas available should you need it?”

There’s a low growl. “You are trying to manipulate me.”

“Mr Toya, I am trying to _help_ you. If you accept my proposal, this could be a most prosperous relationship. Business, yes? I know you understand business.”

“I do understand business.” A pause with the faint sounds of chewing. “Say that I was to accept. How would I be in contact with this organisation?”

“We conduct the majority of our business online. Should you accept, you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Online? That seems unsafe.”

“Oh no. We pride ourselves on our security. No one outside of our network has the slightest chance of hacking in, and anonymity is provided for each and every one of our customers. The procedure is a double-blind; you do not know who we are and we do not know who you are.”

“You are positive there is no chance any purchase could be traced back to us?”

“Not from our network, no.”

“And what are your prices? Your response rate? We do not like being kept waiting.”

“We sell heroin at 75,000 yen per gram, cocaine at 30,000 yen per gram, and ecstasy at 3,500 yen per pill. Once you have placed your order, we will deliver the package to your specified location at a random time within seven to thirty business days.”

“ _Thirty_ business days? That’s simply outrageous!”

“Yes, I’m afraid that in exchange for our 100% security, time constraints must be agreed upon. In order to protect the anonymity of everyone working at Pluto and all our customers, our delivery times are very flexible.”

“And why is that, Mr Clodius?”

“Our employees all have exceptionally diverse methods of transportation and ways of surmounting local and national authorities. Allowances must be made for the good of everyone.”

Hmm. Q narrows his eyes. That could be a weakness.

“Hmph. And that other...product you mentioned?”

“The process of manufacturing or obtaining the chemical will, unfortunately, add ten business days on top of moving the product. Prices vary depending on the strength and purity of the compound.”

Fuckity fucked fuck up shit. Q scowls, mentally cursing up a blue streak. A chemical weapon production facility is all sorts of dangerous _and_ illegal. Pluto owning one is all but catastrophic. Pluto having access to one isn’t much better.

On the bed, Bond’s tilted his head a fraction to the side like a curious panther, consummately still, focused like a sniper before the shot. Q somewhat resents the fact that knowing Bond shares his concern is vaguely reassuring.

The conversation after that meanders, from drug use in Japan to possible extortion methods and human trafficking. Clodius states that Pluto isn’t interested in human trafficking but is in no ways morally opposed to the act and even suggests several strategies for Toya to improve.

And then, at last, there’s “Well, Mr Toya? Have you decided?”

Q inhales slowly. He’d rather not have to dismantle the second largest yakuza gang in Japan, he thinks, and maybe M was exaggerating when she told them to destroy every last branch of Pluto, but he doubts it. That being said, attempting to obtain illegal chemical weapons is grounds for arrest anyway.

But Toya doesn’t appear to be paying attention. Because, “Is that another one of your tourists?”

“...yes? I believe he’s with the other one.”

“So many here today,” and there’s a suspicious edge to Toya’s voice that pricks at Q’s instincts. Bond doesn’t so much as move a muscle.

A careful beat of silence. “I was under the impression that a large amount of tourists is customary for Japan.”

Toya grunts. Whatever he says next is cut off by the static and loud thumping noises that Q knows is from Bond retrieving the bug. He turns off the recording and starts typing. “I’ll send this to M and the Quartermaster.”

Bond makes a derisive noise. “And what would that do? The best thing we can do now is dismantle this organisation before they can do more harm and figure out who their clients are. You’ve got to learn, Q, that there’s a time for talk and there’s a time for action, and the former is rarely as effective as the latter.”

Q tries not to bristle. He suspects he’s failing. “That may be so,” he says, trying to keep his voice unruffled and free of homicidal intent, “but I’m already finished sending the email, and there’s nothing lost in keeping our superiors informed. They _may_ even have information that could prove helpful in the long-term.”

Bond doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Q curls his lip. “M would _presumably_ be at least aware of worldwide chemical weapon production facilities and their requirements to operate, giving us further parameters on where to look. The Quartermaster would _presumably_ be peripherally knowledgeable about chemical weapons, and I’d _presume_ that they’d both be happy to be kept up to date on Pluto’s threat level. Not to mention that, since we might encounter these weapons during this mission, it would _presumably_ be nice to have some advice on how to deal with them without severely endangering ourselves.”

He pauses and then adds, “But those are all presumptions. I could be wrong.”

Bond is frowning at him, brows drawn together, the human equivalent of a crackling thunderstorm on the horizon. There’s cold calculation in the frost of his eyes, and 004 is almost, _almost_ tempted to verbally take a step back. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, 004?”

Q considers denying it but ends up shrugging. It would only end up being a lie. “I _am_ very intelligent, it’s true.”

“It’s going to come back to bite your arse,” Bond promises, slipping off his bed in a languorous move that brings to mind big, lazy cats with sharp claws and even sharper teeth. “And when it does, that arrogance and cheek aren’t going to save you.”

Q dismisses that with a wave of his hand. “Noted, 007. Now kindly get out of my room.”

“My pleasure,” Bond rumbles and prowls out, closing the door behind him.

As soon as Q knows he’s out of earshot, he groans and powers down his laptop after erasing the security footage of his earlier paranoia. This is all shaping up to be a clusterfuck, and it isn’t even the second day on this mission.

Nap or not, he needs to get some fucking sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 007 Fest! 
> 
> Warning: uhhh, this fic is not finished in the slightest, we don't actually know where we're going, and a posting schedule is a myth
> 
> Talk to us on tumblr at [opalescentgold](https://opalescentgold.tumblr.com/) and [faerieoftara](https://faerieoftara.tumblr.com/)! Thanks as always to the team of betas who helped make this chapter coherent and sparkly. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are most welcome.


	3. luctor et emergo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i struggle and emerge_

Q comes awake with the knowledge that he’s on a comfortable flat surface, the gun - safety on, more’s the pity - under his pillow still there. His limbs are unbound. The air coming in through his nostrils is devoid of any strange or suspicious odours, and he hasn’t heard any noises in his sleep that might indicate someone is in his room.

None of that means he’s not in danger, though.

Q doesn’t move. He knows he didn’t move a muscle when he woke up, didn’t tense or breathe differently or make any other incriminating movement because that was how he was trained. He waits, senses straining even as he mentally luxuriates in the soft, plush blankets. They have very nice pillows here.

A minute passes. Two. Then, five. He hears silence, has felt no disturbance. All is as it should be.

Q flips onto his back with the languid, almost drunk flow of the dead asleep and ascertains that his arms and legs are free. He waits once more.

Nothing.

He opens his eyes cautiously. The blank white of the ceiling greets him. A quick dart to the left and to the right shows only the equally blank white walls and the simple hotel furniture. Q sits up smoothly, making as little noise as possible, and scans the room. There’s no one, no evidence of foul play.

 _07:12_ says the clock.

Nodding to himself, Q falls back on the bed and cosies up to the blankets once more. They’re so very soft and warm. God, he hates winter. And mornings.

* * *

Three hours later, Q has had four cups of tea and layered on a jumper. Putting in a call to room service for breakfast, he turns on his laptop. There’s been no audible sound from Bond’s room, and Q wonders if he’s still sleeping. Ten is pretty late for an agent, much less 007, who’s cultivated a reputation for causing chaos day and night.

He shrugs it off. What Bond does during their “off-time” is none of his business, as long as it doesn’t affect the mission or Q personally.

As expected, his laptop immediately presents him with several issues as soon as it boots up fully. Q deals with the questions from Q-Branch about the blueprints he emailed them a week ago, notes that both Boothroyd and M are looking into chemical weapon production but don’t have anything useful at the moment, and starts investigating the notifications from the programs he set up to run while he slept.

‘Glenn Lowell’ displayed perfect identification papers at the airport. He’s paid with cash as much as he can, but both the hotel and Kozue have required a debit card. Then there’s that photo ID, and that website, and Seiji Toya.

It’s enough for Q. He smiles and starts typing.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Q, Bond is not sleeping. He is also engaged in activity that will, in fact, affect the mission and Q personally. Naturally, this doesn’t bother him one whit.

Promptly at 0800, Bond got out of bed and dressed in casual clothes, taking care not to make enough noise to wake 004. Then, he slipped out the door and left the hotel in favour of the backstreets they had argued about in their very first meeting.

Like he said, it’s not his first time playing this game in Tokyo, and he still has some contacts left.

007 prowls the streets with a lazy grin on his face and a gun in his holster. Civilians shy away from him automatically, something in their hindbrains recognising a predator still, although their conscious minds only identify a white foreigner with icy blue eyes. He sticks to the shadows and talks with informants who value their lives and want to plump up their pockets.

And so it is that he learns that the Sumiyoshi-kai are feared. Ambitious. Too ambitious, some say, and others merely look away. That their Boss is power hungry and territory hungry, that perhaps it’s time to expand.

But no one, and here they all agree, go up against the Yamaguchi-gumi.

007 smirks and kindly thanks them for their time. He’s gone like the wind, like cigarette smoke, before anyone can start to question why he’s asking them questions. Along the way, another whisper catches his attention, and he turns, a hound with a scent.

Seiji Toya and Kimiko Toya have a daughter.

Akane Toya is 26 years old and likes to frequent a certain bar in the area.

007 smiles, roguishly handsome, and says, _tell me more_.

* * *

It’s 1400, and Q’s back is starting to protest from being in the same position for so long and being bent over in such a fashion. He sits up straight with a groan and finishes off the last touches to his cover story. The conference tonight will be packed full of brilliant programmers and overconfident genii; he doesn’t need any holes in his alibi.

Shutting down the lid of his laptop, he eyes the room. He could just stretch on the bed, but if he shifts a few things over…

Q does yoga on the floor for thirty minutes, careful to undo the kinks and cramps so his muscles are loose and ready for any sort of strenuous exercise the rest of the day may bring. He rolls to his feet, limber and easy, and it finally occurs to him that he hasn’t heard anything from Bond. For hours.

That’s just...that’s just _suspicious_ , is what it is.

Narrowing his eyes, Q checks the gun in his holster, the knife in his shoe, and the card in his pocket. He retrieves his taser before taking out his phone. With every pretence of casualness, he walks out the door and into the hallway like he isn’t temporarily disabling the surveillance, arming his own security system, and keeping himself vigilant for anything out of the ordinary all at the same time.

It’s the work of a second to slip into Bond’s room and switch the surveillance back on. Deftly stashing the taser in his pocket and grabbing his gun, Q locks the door behind him. The lights aren’t on, although that doesn’t mean anything with the bright sunshine outside.

Gun at his side, Q ascertains that no one is currently in his narrow field of vision and stalks forward slowly; he wouldn’t put it beyond 007 to be hiding somewhere in the corner purely for the sake of startling him. Falling for the same trick twice isn't something Q's too keen on.

Emerging into the main bedroom area, he glances around. Bond isn’t anywhere in sight. Q pokes his head in the bathroom but doesn’t find 007 there either. Looks like Bond is out, probably has been for a while.

Q’s eyes fall on the suitcase lying innocently on the floor.

* * *

Bond returns to the hotel at half-past four and pauses by Q’s door when he passes it. He stays there for a good five minutes, listening. Whatever it is that 004’s doing in there, he’s not making so much as a rustle of the bed sheets.

He smirks at the thought, wryly amused. Bond has a feeling that Q would be a loud shag.

Briefly, he wonders if 004’s still asleep. He would hope not. The conference is at six, and there’s being lazy and then there’s being stupidly unprepared.

Shrugging it off - not technically his problem - Bond unlocks his door and walks in. Five steps in, and he freezes in place, suddenly alert. The shadow stretching across the carpet isn’t supposed to be there.

He narrows his eyes, considering the odds. The door didn’t show any signs of a forced entry. Then again, Bond wouldn’t put it past 004 to be lying dead in a sewer somewhere with empty pockets. Best to proceed with caution.

Bond advances forward, leading with his gun. Breathing steady and even, firmly centred and icily focused, 007 clears the bathroom - as wide open as he left it - and steps into the main area only to find himself aiming his gun at 004, who’s lounging on his chair, laptop on the desk.

To his credit, at finding himself at gunpoint, Q merely blinks. “Ah, there you are, 007,” he says, mild as can be. “And what have you been up to?”

Bond takes a deep breath. He holsters his gun and tries not to glare, aware that it would most likely only amuse Q, and that’s the exact opposite of what he wants. It doesn’t escape his notice that this is precisely what he did to 004 yesterday. “I’ve been doing my job,” he growls.

The slight raise of Q’s chin indicates that he caught the insinuation. “So have I.”

Bond leans against the wall and crosses his arms. For good measure and all the better to infuriate, he also crosses his ankles. “Oh? And what have you got to show for it?” he challenges.

Q sets his jaw and sits back in the chair, crossing his legs and then his arms in a mirror of Bond’s pose. Probably as a conscious taunt. “Clodius’ real name is Brian Colin Vincent.”

“Numbers wise, the Sumiyoshi-kai have no chance against the Yamaguchi-gumi at odds of one to three,” Bond retorts, lightning-fast.

“Mr Vincent was born in Westport, Ireland forty-two years ago to a baker and a librarian.” Q returns on the double.

“The tensions between the two gangs has its roots in the Yamaguchi-gumi’s expansion from Kobe into Tokyo, which has traditionally been Sumiyoshi-kai’s base.”

“He was a troublemaker with two incidents of shoplifting and an arrest for drug-possession when he went missing at the age of twenty-three.”

“Turf-wars between the Sumiyoshi-kai and the Yamaguchi-gumi have been increasing in recent years,” Bond says, words clipped and swift.

“A missing person’s report was filed on Mr Vincent, but he was never found by local authorities.”

“The current leader of the Sumiyoshi-kai is Shigeo Nishiguchi, an old friend of our Mr Toya.”

Q throws his words out like rapid-fire bullets: “Facial recognition confirms that Mr Vincent, under various aliases, all well-constructed and professionally done, has crossed fifteen borders in the past twenty years.”

“Mr Toya has a lovely 26-year-old daughter named Akane. They’re very close.”

“Once you get past the virus, Constance Co. is an empty website. Nothing substantial in it. There aren’t even any shell companies for me to rip into.” Q sounds bizarrely disappointed about that fact.

Bond smirks. “Ms Akane likes to frequent a bar in Golden Gai in the red-light area on weeknights.”

“Today, Mr Toya arranged a meeting with Mr Nishiguchi by phone call.”

“They met in Shinjuku Chuo Park at noon and had lunch together.”

“Ms Akane’s a masochist.”

They pause. The snap of tension that’s been wound steadily to the breaking point is disconcerting. Even for two Double-Oh agents, the sudden silence is somewhat awkward after the breakneck back-and-forth exchange of information.

Bond stares. Q has the grace to look somewhat abashed for half a moment before shrugging it off to stare back impassively.

“Do I want to ask?” Bond says, a tad amused despite himself.

“I have my ways,” deadpans Q.

Bond thinks through Q’s skill-set. The fact that he apparently hasn’t left the hotel the whole day. “You hacked into her device and looked through her internet history, didn’t you?”

Q grins smugly. It’s an infuriatingly appealing look on him. Bond is tempted to wipe it off his face with any means possible. “She wiped the history. That didn’t stop me.”

Bond arches a mocking eyebrow. “Watching porn on a mission, Q? And here I thought you were the epitome of professionalism.”

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it,” Q says with a straight face. “Is it porn if you don’t enjoy it?”

Bond thinks about it. “Did you enjoy it?” he challenges with just enough of a sly, knowing edge that suggests he knows Q did.

“‘Course not. Now _that_ would be unprofessional.” Primly, Q turns back to his computer and starts typing. A multitude of screens starts popping up while countless lines of code run. For all that Bond is watching him do it, he has no idea what exactly 004’s doing.

“And here I thought that would be right up your alleyway.” It’s entirely possible that 004 made up all that innuendo about BDSM on the spot just to rile up Bond, but he rather hopes not. Q is too clean for his tastes, too clean to be a Double-Oh; something to roughen up his edges would be appreciated.

Q hums, eyes busy scanning the screen. “If I recall correctly - and I always do - alleyways were more of your thing than mine.” A few more taps on the keyboard, and the picture of a pretty woman with long, dark hair and a flower tattooed on her neck appears. “Your Ms Akane.”

Bond walks across the length of the room to come up on Q’s right. He observes the minute tensing of 004’s shoulders, so subtle that most people probably wouldn’t even notice, but braces his hand on the back of the chair and looks at the laptop over his shoulder regardless. It _is_ his chair in the first place.

Such behavior is also atrociously rude amongst agents who are technically on the same side, but 007 can’t care less.

“Not mine,” Bond murmurs in Q’s ear, coolly indifferent, “not yet.”

“How,” Q says without moving a muscle out of place, easily matching Bond’s tone if not the relaxed posture, “has no one shot you in the heart yet, purely out of spite?”

Bond’s smile has more teeth than necessary. “They’ve certainly tried.”

“Yes, but not out of spite.” Without warning, Q shoves his chair backwards, which would have knocked Bond right off of his feet if he hadn’t stepped neatly out of the way a mere second before. 004 spins his chair around and returns Bond’s smile with a polite air as if he hadn’t just admitted to hacking into 007’s confidential files. “I do hate to be the one who rains on your parade, but you do recall that the tech conference is tonight, yes?”

“I don’t have that bad of a memory, Q,” Bond replies, unperturbed. Rather than move away, he bends down to brace his hands on the armrests of the chair, effectively trapping 004. Their faces are mere centimetres apart. “Don’t see what that has to do with me, though.”

“... Divide and conquer?” Q says after a moment. He looks warily intrigued instead of dismissing the idea out of hand. Good. Bond isn’t in the mood to babysit. He’s also fully aware of 004’s left hand, which is in his pocket, curled against a small object, most likely a weapon. “Could work.”

Bond briefly considers mincing his words before deciding not to. “It’ll work just fine if nobody bollocks it up.” Up close, Q’s eyelashes are dark and long and curly, his skin perilously soft and smooth. 007 could ruin him without even trying.

And then Q says, “Well then, you’d best wear those jeans,” and it’s a dash of cold water.

Bond doesn’t make the mistake of glancing away. “You looked in my luggage.” He’s not overly concerned about it; being a spy means understanding that privacy is a luxury, and there’s nothing incriminating in his suitcase. Still, it’s a reminder that Q is 004, and however green and new he is, they underwent the same basic training.

He’s not entirely without fangs, this one.

As if he wants to prove Bond right, Q’s smile is lazy and fox-sly. “Don’t worry. I didn’t learn much of anything except that you were probably a Boy Scout in your past life, and that you’re old-fashioned regarding shaving.”

“Sometimes the old ways are the best,” Bond says. Q’s cologne is something citrusy and woodsy, not one that Bond can recognise. It isn’t at all sophisticated or classy.

Despite their proximity, despite the fact that his instincts must be screaming _danger_ and _threat_ and _move_ , Q’s gaze is even and calm. “You can’t hide from the brave new world forever.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Outside, it starts to rain.

* * *

“You must be joking,” Bond says an hour later. He’s in Q’s room again, not because he’s been invited or because Q wants him in here, but because he has nothing else to do for the time being, and he wanted to make sure 004 has at least a faint idea of what he’s doing.

The answer to that is no, no, he doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s doing.

“You’re right,” Q mutters, squinting at the mirror. He skews his tie - an ugly dark red that clashes horribly with his patterned blue shirt - farther to the left and then runs his hands through his hair, fluffing it up to an impossible degree.

Bond is momentarily speechless with horror. Q takes that time to nonchalantly fuss about with his dark grey suit jacket, injecting wrinkles and making sure the lapels aren’t flat. Then, he runs a hand through his hair one last time and slips on the glasses he wore last night.

“You look like a catastrophe just waiting to happen,” Bond informs him candidly, his sheer disgust shredding right through his usual verbal filters. “No, wait, you look like you’re wearing your grandfather’s clothes.”

Not only does everything clash, but Q’s shirt is also a size too small, his tie is three centimetres too long, his black trousers are a size too big, and his jacket isn’t buttoned. His shoes are blatantly cheap, he doesn’t have cufflinks, and those glasses really aren’t doing anything for his eyes.

And _nothing’s_ tailored. Literally the only saving grace is that 004’s shoulder holster isn’t painfully visible.

“That _is_ the point, Mr Bond.” Q scrutinizes his reflection once more before turning away, apparently satisfied. His eyes flick from Bond’s shoes to the tips of his hair in one easy sweep, and the corner of his mouth tips up. No doubt because Bond did end up wearing those damn jeans.

He is going to a club, after all.

Bond mentally dares him to say anything about his obedience (or lack thereof), but Q just walks by and grabs his phone, which was charging on the table. “You _do_ have a phone, right?”

Bond dangles his flip-phone from MI6 in the air without a word.

Q curls his lip. “Well, that’ll have to do, I suppose.” He sticks his phone in his right pocket, which allows Bond to ascertain that he also has another object in there, and removes a knife from his suitcase - a throwing knife, Bond notes, 15 or so centimetres, good metal - to slide it into a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket.

Not entirely untailored then. Modified for concealment and ease of movement but left looking terrible. He’s not sure if that’s worse or not.

Ambling forward, Q plucks Bond’s phone out of his hand and starts fiddling with it.

“How many weapons do you have on you?” Bond asks idly.

Q continues tapping at the keys. “Guess.”

Bond looks him up and down with a reflexive leer. There was that throwing knife, the traditional gun holstered on his left side, the glint of metal he saw in 004’s hair, the watch on his left wrist, the pen and notebook - Bond tries not to cringe - in his breast pocket, and whatever else is in his right trouser pocket.

007 dubiously decides to give 004 the benefit of the doubt and assume he has the skill to hide a weapon from Bond’s raptor-sharp eyes. “Seven.”

“Eight.” Q smiles at him, sweet, and hands him back his phone. “I’m speed-dial four. Good luck out there, Mr Bond. Do try to come back in one piece.”

Bond quirks an eyebrow at him as he puts his phone away and tries to figure out where the remaining two weapons are. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t? I thought she was a masochist.”

“She is, but I hear yakuza women can be brutal.” Q brushes by him as he heads towards the door. Just before he lets it close behind him, he glances back with a hint of a smirk. “Best watch out for the mother.”

The door slams shut behind him.

Bond narrows his eyes at the door and then at Q’s suitcase.

* * *

Q is enjoying himself at the conference. He’s donned the professional nerd facade often enough that it’s not as much of a strain on his attention as other facades might have been, and he came prepared. Of all the people mingling in the ballroom, twenty have a criminal record, three have something even remotely serious, and only one is armed.

Clodius is halfway across the room at this point, talking with an American programmer. The most common language being thrown around is English, although Q’s also heard snippets of Japanese, Welsh, and Italian. From the last time 004 brushed past him, Clodius has a Glock on his right shoulder holster - left-handed, he noted to himself - and that’s it.

It’s enough for Q to relax a bit and actually talk with some of the fascinating people in attendance. While none of them are really on Q’s level, they do work in areas that he doesn’t often concentrate in, and he finds it genuinely interesting to hear about earthquake engineering and television graphics programming.

He’s careful to strike a balance in how he presents himself. Socially awkward but with a certain artless charm; a professional man with a quick smile and some talent in coding but not too much; single and happy to talk to pretty women but with a fear of commitment that can’t possibly lead to anything.

Nice, smart, but ultimately bland and forgettable. Merely a shiny stone in this crowd of polished gemstones and expensive metals.

Q mingles effortlessly amongst the crowd and makes small talk for a while. When he ‘coincidentally’ meets with Clodius two hours in, he has a small pastry in hand from the buffet-style food spread on the table pressed to the wall and a new friend named Michael to introduce him.

“Mr Lowell, this is William Adams, an IT manager for Turning and Clarke,” Michael says brightly. “Mr Adams, this is Glenn Lowell, a database manager for Constance Co.”

Adams waits for Clodius to extend the hand first. It gives the illusion of being the dominant in the introduction, makes him feel just a tad more superior than he would otherwise. “Pleasure to meet you.” Clodius’ hand is soft and dry, the calluses faint. Not nervous, not overly experienced with a gun nor trained in martial arts.

Good. This should be quick and easy.

(Even as the thought passes through his mind, 004 knows it’s never that simple. And as usual, he turns out to be right.)

“Likewise.” Adams drops his hand quickly before Clodius can get a feel on it. Let him think that William Adams is unmanly and shy or whatever. 004 doesn’t particularly care. “Awful weather we’re having, isn’t it?” he asks with the rough Yorkshire accent he’s been using all night.

As if to punctuate Adams’ point, right at that moment, lightning flashes, white with a tint of blue. Thunder vibrates the floor soon after, shaking their bones.

Clodius smiles, rueful. “Yeah, it sure is. Thank God we’re inside, eh?”

“Mmm. I would hate to be outside during _this_ storm.” 004 spares a minute to wonder what 007’s up to. He hopes nothing too untoward has happened, although he wouldn’t bet on it.

Clodius looks at him closely. Adams blinks back, a man with nothing to be concerned about, nothing that could possibly be suspicious. “You know,” Clodius says, “I think we’ve met before. Were you at Kozue last night?”

Adams allows a flicker of surprise to dash across his face. “Yeah, I was. Were you there, too? Sorry, I have an awful memory.”

Clodius waves that away with a friendly grin. “Not at all, don’t worry about it. They have the most spectacular food don’t they?”

Before Adams can answer, someone near the window yells, “Oh my God, look!”

Q’s heart sinks even before he turns to see an explosion in the far off distance.

_Damn it, 007._

* * *

007 is lazing in bed and basking in the post-coital glow with a Ms Akane. He found her exactly where expected, nursing a pina colada and surrounded by five other girls, all beautiful, all with smiles like a garrote wound tight across a neck when men approached them.

Bond could learn from other people’s mistakes, so he spent the first ten minutes with a martini in hand and circled the bar, making sure he was visible without being overly obvious about it. He danced a bit, kept his eyes open, and saw his opportunity at the forty-five minute mark.

Ms Akane was sitting alone at the bar, her friends either on the dance floor or flirting with other men. Bond casually sat down next to her and ordered her a pina colada. Some nonchalant conversation, a hint of the danger he mingled with charm, and she was taking him home with her.

Bond graciously tipped their cabbie, seeing as they were snogging in the backseat. It wasn’t easy, even for a Double-Oh, to keep track of the turns of the car when hickies were being sucked into his neck, but he managed, and when they stopped in front of a tall, elegant tower block, he knew exactly where he was.

Then he had himself a bit of fun. Much as he hates to admit it, whatever his sources were, Q was right in one instance: Ms Akane is very much a masochist. Also a screamer.

Satisfied, satiated, Bond stretches. “Wipes?” he asks, purposefully keeping his British accent. It adds to the exotic appeal, he suspects.

Ms Akane, who looks rather worn out, mutters something about the kitchen.

Bond grunts and rolls out of bed. “Do you want a cup of water?”

Another mutter that he takes to mean an agreement. Naked and utterly shameless, Bond nonetheless deigns to pull on his trousers before slipping into the kitchen. He finds the wipes, the glasses, and the water easily enough. It’s mixing in the sedative he hid in his pocket that makes him pause for a second.

He still needs to talk to her, get the information he needs about what the Sumiyoshi-kai are deciding to do about Pluto, so he can’t knock her out too quickly, but he also can’t have her awake too long either. Thunder rumbles in his ears as he pours in half of the small container.

Akane’s recovered enough to brace herself on her elbows and smile at Bond when he returns. He cleans them up while she drinks two sips of the water - it’s enough - and then slips under the covers to indulge in some pillow talk.

Slowly, deviously, Bond steers them away from safe topics like what he’s doing here in Japan and where he works to what she does for her family and her family ‘business’. She’s good with her father, she mumbles, but she always fights with her mother. They have close friends who also work in the family business; it’s all good.

It helps that the drug is doing its work, and she was tired to begin with, probably even a tad tipsy from the tequila she was chugging back when Bond convinced her to take him home. Despite everything, she’s been trained not to reveal anything about the Sumiyoshi-kai, but that’s fine, Bond can infer.

He patiently waits through her slurred words and coaxes her to talk through the longer pauses. And some thirty minutes later, he hits jackpot.

“Weee...we si...gned a major contract...todaay,” she says through yawns. “That’s...why I was out...celebrating…”.

“A good business investment?” Bond murmurs, pitching his voice to be just the right tone of idle curiosity and dark intimacy.

“Hmmm.” Akane smiles sleepily. “The...best.”

Bond hums in acknowledgement and pets her hair in silence until she’s well and truly out. Then, he slips out of bed on cat-silent feet and dresses. He’s closing the door behind him when things start going wrong.

The elevator at the far end of the corridor dings, and Kimiko Toya steps out in an elegant red dress, her hair pinned in a severe bun at her nape. She spots Bond and asks, with immediate suspicion in accented English, “Who are you? What were you doing in my daughter’s room?”

007 takes in the defensive body language, the offensive tone, and the way her hand is hovering near her side, close to the Beretta strapped to her thigh. But he’s well-versed in handling the suspicious parents and friends of marks.

“We happened to meet at a bar, Ma’am. She’s asleep right now.” Bond steps away from the door and keeps his hands open and visible at his side, meets her eyes with just a fraction of awkward sincerity, and doesn’t let his voice waver.

For all her distrust, Ms Toya isn’t good enough to see through his lies. “Very well,” she says with clear distaste. Ah, she doesn’t approve of her daughter’s scandalous behaviour. Daddy’s girl, indeed. “I trust you’ll be able to see yourself out.”

Bond inclines his head politely. “Good evening, Ma’am.” He starts walking towards the elevator as she approaches, and they pass each other without incident. Sadly, they’re on the fifteenth floor, and the elevator’s already on the sixth.

Bond presses the down button and stands there calmly.

Behind him, he hears the distinct click of a lock and the swoosh of a door opening. 007 glances over his shoulder just in time to see the door of Akane’s room swinging closed. Disapproval or not, Ms Toya is still a mother.

Then, he bolts for the stairs.

It won’t take long for Ms Toya to realise that her daughter won’t wake, no matter how much she shakes her.

Bond is five floors down when he hears the tell-tale sound of boots thudding on the stairs ahead of him. He mutters a curse and decides to take a gamble. Careful to make the least amount of noise possible, he opens the closest door - 10th floor, he notes - and slips into a hallway, making sure not to let the door slam shut behind him.

007 looks around. There’s a middle-aged Japanese man in a sweatshirt and sweatpants staring at him from a half dozen rooms away with a deep furrow in his brow. Bond nods at him, adjusts his cufflinks, and heads for the elevator.

He glances at the indicator after pressing the down button. The elevator’s already gone up to the 15th floor and is descending now. Good. A few seconds later, the elevator dings and opens its doors. Bond finds himself face to face with a young girl in pigtails, a goth teenager with her phone out, and their exhausted-looking father.

He spares a pitying look at the father before walking in and turning to look at the closing doors impassively. It’s unnerving to have people at his back, but this family isn’t any particular threat. They start going down, and 007 watches the numbers change. 10, 9, 8…

The elevator comes to a halt at 7. Bond subtly tenses. A sweet-faced old lady greets him with an absent-minded smile and hobbles in on her cane to start a one-sided conversation with the father and the teenager.

They start moving again. His heart pounds in his ears, a familiar battle cry. His breath comes evenly. Bond is anything but rattled. 7, 6, 5, 4…

3…

They stop again. This time, a man with a beard in a sharp suit faces them with two men at his back. The instant recognition that flares on his face when he catches sight of Bond is warning enough, even without the shoulder holsters.

Bond smiles at them with all the coolness of a glacier and shoves right past the bearded man at a sprint. He pushes one man to the ground, jabs his elbow into the side of the last man, and runs down the hallway.

Fuck subtlety.

Angry shouts cloud the air behind him, although, to his relief, he hears the elevator doors close once more. The pounding of feet follows, but by then, 007 has caught sight of the glowing red ‘EXIT’ sign and has located the stairwell. He pushes the door open. And he runs.

A tower block isn’t really the place to get into a gunfight. Too many innocents.

Bond breaks into the lobby with at least a dozen men on his tail. Three burly men are waiting for him at the door, armed with scowls and tattoos and pistols, but 007 draws his Walther at last and fires off two shots. One man goes down, and the other two scatter like startled sparrows.

007 bares his teeth in a grin and barrels out the door.

He emerges into the pouring winter rain and is soaked within seconds. The accompanying wind is vicious, grasping at him with greedy fingers. His muscles clench up, wanting to shiver, but Bond forces the impulse down with steely will. Once he gets moving again, adrenaline and energy will generate enough heat to get him by.

Lightning streaks the sky above, illuminating the dark world for a bare second. He’s on an empty road, surrounded by a few trees, with the building behind him. The thunder that follows almost at once brings to mind a counting game Bond used to play with Kincade when he was a boy.

The storm is right above them, he thinks, and it’s fitting.

007 darts towards the fluttering trees, knowing he needs cover. The rapid putter of gunfire cries out from behind him, and he gets behind one tree just in time for two holes to be shot through the bark. He pauses there.

Most people shut down under pressure, their critical thinking dragged down by the molasses of fright. 007 never has. Adrenaline slaps him awake instead, and now, his every assessment is as pristine and cold as a freshly fallen snowflake beneath a microscope.

He’s outnumbered. Outgunned. He has 5 rounds in this magazine left, and he has two more magazines in his left pocket. As for his right pocket…

At the moment, Bond needs to find himself a car. The only reason he hasn’t been shot dead yet is because the combination of the rain, the clouds, and the night isn’t at all conducive to visibility. They quite frankly can’t see him. For now, his footsteps are too silent, his breaths too quiet, for them to pinpoint him down over the steady rain.

But that isn’t going to last. He needs to get away and fast.

Encouraged by the wind, water is flying into his eyes, icy and stinging. His suit clings to his skin unpleasantly. Thunder drowns out the sound of gunfire and shouted Japanese for five heartbeats, and the lightning gives just enough light for just long enough that Bond catches sight of the car a street down and to the left.

He thinks that it’s a silver BMW. Not his first choice but it’ll do.

Disregarding the outraged cries and the increasing gunfire, Bond flings himself out from the cover of the trees to fire off three blind shots in the general direction of where he can hear the yakuza. A man cries out in pain, and the gunshots resume.

Bond runs and shoots, moving in an erratic pattern to ensure that the enemy never has a very good idea of his location. He’s out of bullets in a minute flat and has to reload on the go. The thud of bodies on pavement is distinct; he hears two more.

Bond is turning the corner when a bullet grazes his shoulder. The hot, wicked pain has him gritting his teeth, but it cuts through the sullen cold, and he doesn’t so much as stumble. Instead, he continues going, making sure to avoid the warm glow of the street lamps.

He reaches the car at long last and ducks down, placing the bulk of it between him and his pursuers. Reaching into his right pocket, Bond waits, unhurriedly counting off the seconds in his head. He tosses the object up and down in his hand, familiarizing himself with the weight distribution. It’s better than usual; he won’t have to throw as hard then.

It would be near impossible for anyone else to sit in the freezing rain, blood mingling with the water to pool at his feet and stain his shirt, with only the dubious cover of a car between the merciless death of a bullet and the loud footsteps of more than eight men. At the very least, they’d have to battle the age-old instincts screaming _fight_ or _run_ but most definitely don’t freeze in place and wait for death to come in the jaws of a large predator or the insidious cold.

007, though, he leans his head against the frigid metal of the car and doesn’t feel any unease. The blood in his veins is colder than the rain lashing against his cheeks, and he’s not the prey in the situation. He’s the cobra with the mouthful of venom, coiled to strike, and for this, his patience is endless.

Although he appears to be staring blankly at the tree looming over him, all of his attention is focused on what he’s hearing: the smack of boots on pavement growing louder, closer, the cessation of the gunfire, the slow, cautious approach.

Their mistake in thinking that caution is worth anything in a situation like this.

Bond is three seconds away from zero when a rough, accented voice calls out, “Stop hiding, you fucking pussy! Come out with your hands in the air now and maybe we won’t - ”

007 holsters his gun and yanks out the detonation pin with his teeth. He lobs it up and over the hood of the car and into the midst of where he estimates the yakuza are. There’s a familiar second as the world hides its breath and even the sound of the thunder seems dull.

Bond closes his eyes, ducks his head, and enjoys the pitter-patter of the rain.

Then, he clasps his hands over his ears.

The grenade explodes with a bang that deafens even 007, who was prepared for it. The wave of excruciating heat is almost welcome after the chilly rain and fierce wind. Acrid smoke stings his nostrils, and he opens his eyes to see the black plumes of smoke. Over the screams of pain, fire crackles, an old friend.

Bond’s smile creeps across his face like ice taking over a river, ruthless and uncaring and implacable all at once. “Won’t be hearing from them again.” With his enemies distracted, it takes 007 a bare thirty seconds to wire the car.

He steps hard on the accelerator and is gone.

* * *

Even as everyone runs to try and see what the commotion is about and he allows himself to be tugged into the flow of people, Q is thinking intently. It’s not terribly surprising that Bond has, in his own words, “bollocksed it all up” but there’s something...something that he’s missing…

“What is that?” someone asks loudly.

“A gas leak?”

“An oil fire?”

“A volcano eruption?”

“What are you, an idiot?” another anonymous voice says disdainfully. “It’s _obviously_ a terrorist attack.”

Someone whimpers. A shiver of fear rolls over the entire crowd. Q fights not to roll his eyes.

Thankfully, someone else with common sense pipes up, “We don’t know that. In fact, we don’t know anything right now. We should check for news.”

There’s a flurry of activity as everyone takes out their phone and looks frantically for the newest Tokyo news. After glancing subtly around him and assuring himself that everyone is preoccupied, 004 takes the chance to check on a sneaky suspicion that’s grown in his mind.

Q left his room at 1747 exactly.

Bond, he realises when he checks his app, left his room at 1802.

Walking ten steps can’t possibly take fifteen minutes. 004 curses a blue streak in his head as he glances up again to evaluate the damage in the far off distance. It’s as he thought; 007 took one of his custom grenades and just set one off.

Bastard.

There’s nothing in the local news, of course. The police wouldn’t have gotten there yet, much less the fire department, and there’s no saying how the yakuza would complicate the normal proceedings.

“What do we do now?”

“We came all this way. We might as well just wait for the local authorities to take care of it,” Adams suggests, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard but maintaining his facade as just another techie.

It doesn’t take long for the sheep-mentality to take hold. Never does, really.

“You’re right.”

“Yeah.”

“That makes sense.”

For a couple more minutes, everyone mills around nervously, glancing at each other for another opinion, before agreeing to go back to what they were doing before, albeit with the periodic glance out the windows.

“That was odd,” Michael says. “What do you think happened?”

Adams shrugs. “I have no idea.” He scans the ballroom. “Do you know where Mr Lowell went? I wanted to ask him what he thought of Kozue’s fish; I’m planning on going back for tomorrow’s lunch.”

Michael, the good chap, joins him in looking around. “There,” he says, pointing at the left wall. “You see him?”

004 does, indeed. Clodius is leaning against the wall, phone pressed against his ear. He’s frowning, tense, and alarm bells start going off in Q’s head, even before Clodius glances up and meets his eyes.

There’s a moment of peace in which Clodius realises that Q knows and Q realises that Clodius knows that Q knows.

004 watches Clodius’ lips shape _“Shit”_ from a ballroom away and empathises.

“Thanks,” Adams says offhandedly. “Hey, I gotta go, don’t wait up.”

Ignoring Michael’s startled questions, 004 throws off the mask of William Adams and starts racing across the room, because Clodius has just barked something into his phone before snapping it closed and is tearing off towards the exit. Q shoves his way through the crowd without hesitation, paying no mind to the curses and yells of indignation.

Momentarily, he is grateful that this is a conference of boffins. No one is anywhere near substantial enough to stop him for more than a second, a pack of bunnies easily parted by a charging leopard. Q bursts out of the ballroom just in time to glimpse the dark blue of Clodius’ suit jacket as he rounds the corner.

004 smiles unpleasantly and slows to a casual stroll. He inhales, exhales, and slips a hand in his pocket. 007 may think that Q was wasting the day away, but he was making his preparations and backup plans, and this is precisely one of the scenarios he predicted.

As an agent, as a _killer_ , 004 is always at his best when he’s utterly prepared, every step of the chess game planned out and countered and retaliated against before his opponent is even aware that they’re playing.

Clodius is already in checkmate. He simply doesn’t know it.

Q knows his phone by heart. He presses three buttons - 318 - and holds down the eight for an extra five seconds, knowing that some floors above, his laptop is stirring awake and starting to run the program he created in the morning. Full completion will take less than fifteen seconds.

And then. Then, the elevator doors on this floor won’t open, regardless of where the actual elevator is. The surveillance cameras on this floor are already shutting off, and best of all, 004 is standing right in front of the staircase doors.

He quietly walks in and situates himself to the left of the doors, a hunter lying in wait for the perfect moment. Touching a hand to his gun, Q considers shooting Clodius, but even with a silencer, the gunshot will attract attention, and he doesn’t want to clean up the blood.

Besides, it’s hard to interrogate a corpse.

If anyone was in that staircase with him, they would have seen bright green eyes shining in the bright fluorescent light and a polite, almost professional expression totally at odds with the predator-stillness of his posture, weight light on the balls of his feet, muscle and sinew poised for ambush.

But there isn’t, and so, Clodius doesn’t stand a chance.

Minutes later, the doors are thrust open, and Clodius hurries in, focused only on escape, on the stairs ahead of him. He doesn’t even take the time to survey his surroundings, which is plain stupid and all but asking for a bullet to the head. Q’s doing him a favour, really. His training is evidently lacking.

004 has him in a chokehold before he can so much as register the danger. Clodius’ flails are weak and effortlessly contained, and when he slumps, unconscious, Q lets him fall to the floor with a dull thump.

Now, to get him back to 004’s room…

“I need more tea,” Q comments to himself.

* * *

007 arrives on his floor at 2023. The stain of blood has spread to nearly the entire front of his white shirt, helped along by the fact that he’s still wet to the bone. He’s irritated and cold and jittery with adrenaline. A shower, a change of clothes, and then a call to 004 to ensure that he hasn’t completely blown his cover and been kidnapped are his only plans for the rest of the night, in precisely that order. .

Said plans are unfortunately completely derailed before he even reaches his room, because as soon as he passes Q’s room, Bond notices the light is on inside. He pauses, measuring up his desire to warm himself up versus his desire to find out why 004 is back so early. Presuming that this resident is 004.

007 decides that he’s too annoyed and cold to play this game tonight. He knocks hard on the door. “Mr Adams?”

“Come in,” comes the response. That’s definitely Q.

Bond entertains the thought that he’s speaking under duress before concluding that he doesn’t care. He unlocks the door with his key and walks in to find Q sitting on his chair, knees drawn up to his chest like a child, in a black shirt, black sweatpants, and black _trainers_ of all things. He’s never looked more like a uni student.

“You’re dripping on my carpet,” Q snipes, tearing his eyes away from his laptop to peer at Bond briefly. He’s not wearing the glasses anymore.

“It’s an improvement,” Bond responds. “What happened to stalking our Mr Vincent?”

There’s a strange noise, indignant words muffled into incoherence. Bond narrows his eyes. He knows that sort of sound. Q jerks his head to the right, and 007 walks farther into the room to catch sight of said man bound to a chair - he suspects it’s from his room - and gagged.

He’s glaring bloody murder, of course, but Bond couldn’t care less.

That explains the Glock 19 Q has on his desk when Bond knows he doesn’t use a Glock and the silver Samsung flip phone connected to his laptop. “I’m hacking into his phone right now,” Q confirms, and there’s something in his voice that has Bond’s instincts sitting up, something fleeting and glossy like light glinting off metal. “Who do you think called him last?”

Bond shifts his weight, muscles flexing. He ignores the stinging pain of his shoulder wound to muse out the question, testing out the nuances of it. It’s definitely not friendly. “I would think that I should be asking you that,” he says, neutral.

Q flashes a smile that’s lazy and calculating. “It was from Mr Toya.” He uncoils from his chair in a supple, sinuous movement to lean against his desk, and 007 feels the adrenaline buzz return to his veins. “He ran as soon as he got it. And you had the nerve to accuse _me_ of bollocking it all up.”

Ah. That’s it, what’s what he was missing. 004 is riding an adrenaline high, too, and belligerent with it. Well, too bad. Bond’s returning grin is perhaps too shark-like to be polite. “At least I was out acquiring - successfully, might I add - vital information for this mission. What were you doing?”

“Playing damage control,” Q says with astringent dryness. “I’m not _here_ for damage control.”

Bond snorts. “Are you sure? I thought that was precisely what you’re here for.”

“Oh, so you admit that you need a supervisor to clean up after you?”

Lightning rips across the sky behind Q. Bond doesn’t blink. “Only one of us is a supervisor here, and it’s not you.”

“I hardly think supervisor is the right word for what you are, 007,” Q retorts, sickly sweet.

“You’re right. I would prefer chaperone. Or maybe shepherd. Babysitter?”

“No, you’re a freeloader,” Q snaps. Clearly, this was what was bothering him all along. “Keep your hands off of my tech, ta very much.”

Bond arches an unmoved eyebrow, scorn turning his every word into the icy rain still pelting the windows. “You were the one who left me with your luggage. And if I recall correctly, you went through my things as well. No one likes a hypocrite, Q.”

“And what precisely was I supposed to take to make us even?” Q scowls severely. “The suits tailored to you? The positively ancient cutthroat razor? Was I meant to try and make a dent in the frankly _unreasonable_ amount of lube and condoms - ”

“Jealous?”

“Of your vanilla sex life?” Q scoffs. “Hardly. Although, the next time you’re jealous of my tech, kindly keep your hands to yourself and get your own.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sharing is caring during primary school?” Bond’s jaw is clenched hard enough that it hurts, which proves excellent for distracting him from strangling 004. Christ, what is it about this boy that pushes all of his buttons?

“Yes, because I’m terribly concerned about _caring_ for you. And you’re _still_ dripping on my carpet!”

“Yes, because _I_ care about the bloody carpet!”

They glare viciously at each other, both panting slightly because their voices have grown progressively louder. Somewhere in the interim, they’ve fallen into defensive stances and closed the distance between them so they’re snapping in each other’s faces, just about ready to commit murder and hide the body.

Having been thoroughly ignored, Clodius takes this chance to make another muffled sound of whiny anger.

“Oh, shut up,” Q snarls and moves forward. 007 stiffens, but Q shoves past him and walks into the bathroom instead of attacking. He comes out seconds later and throws a white towel at Bond, who catches it instinctively. “Clean yourself up and stop bleeding everywhere, for God’s sake.”

“I’ll try, ta,” Bond says sarcastically. “Where’s the first-aid kit?”

On his way back to his chair, Q bends down to rummage around his suitcase, giving Bond a fantastic view of his pert arse. Bond finds it outrageous that someone so aggravating manages to have such a fantastic arse even in sweatpants. He takes a deep breath so he doesn’t punch Q in the face.

Once he finds it, 004 hurls the kit at Bond like a pro baseball pitcher and only frowns harder when 007 catches it easily. While Bond goes about setting himself to rights in the middle of the room - throwing his sopping wet coat jacket and his stained shirt on Q’s bed to be petty - Q seats himself and starts typing again. Somehow, he makes even the click-clack of his keys sound passive-aggressive.

Bond responds to this by dabbing at his wound with unnecessary brusqueness, crackling with energy that has nowhere to go.

The resulting five minutes are quiet and strained, filled with the sounds of Q’s typing, Bond’s dubious usage of bandages and antiseptic, and Clodius’ continued protests. Q ignores Bond, Bond ignores Q, and they both ignore Clodius. A warm and happy time all around.

Q is the one who breaks the simmering tension by saying shortly, “Well?”

“Well what?” Bond is shirtless but mostly dry. He eyes Q’s minibar.

“You said you learned something. What is it?” Q hits a key with gratuitous force. “‘Vital’, I believe you said.”

Bond ultimately surmises that he doesn’t give a damn what 004 thinks and pours a glass of scotch for himself. He spares a glance for Clodius, but the man’s pretty much a dead man breathing by this point; he knows too much, and 007 just doesn’t care. “The deal’s on.”

Because he’s paying attention, he sees Clodius stiffen. He doesn’t make a sound. It’s all but a confirmation, and Q knows it, too, from the way that he throws an assessing, narrow-eyed look at Clodius before turning slightly to face Bond. “The full package?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Bond tosses back the scotch, savouring the familiar burn. Upon lowering the glass, he watches Q watch him, quick eyes skipping from his face to the jagged knife scar on his left pectoral to the patch-job he did on his shoulder.

Q frowns, lines appearing in his forehead. “That’s going to scar,” he says.

Bond shrugs the disapproval off like a duck letting water roll off its feathers. “I’ll take care of it later. And what’s one more scar?” The shift of his shoulders emphasizes his bare chest and broad expanse of musculature and draws 004’s eyes to the multitude of scars littering Bond’s skin as intended.

“You needn’t act so proud of it,” Q tells him, irked, before pulling his focus back to his laptop, where a map has been pulled up and information is scrolling across the screen. “This phone has only been active for a month. It’s of a cheap make, clearly meant to be disposable. He probably goes through a dozen a year.”

Bond pours himself some more scotch.

“It was bought at a tech store in Moscow. Records of the phone company indicate that there have never been any sent or received text messages. There’s no voicemail. Prior to the call from Mr Toya was a two-minute call from Seville, Spain two weeks ago. Before that was a ten-minute call from the same number.”

“Seville isn’t exactly small.” Bond gulps down a large mouthful. A muffled sound from behind him abruptly catches and holds his attention. It’s nothing so obvious as the cock of a gun or the scrap of metal on metal, but his instincts rumble a warning, and he immediately looks for his gun, which is empty but still the best weapon available.

It’s still in his holster, which is on the bed, along with his shirt and jacket. Too far away, he decides at once, even though the magazine is in his pocket. Bond’s five steps from the door, the only possible entryway for an ambush. If there are multiple enemies, he needs to waylay them in the narrow corridor before the suite opens up into the main room. 004’s right in the line of fire, the fool, and M is going to tear his hide off if he comes back without her baby Double-Oh.

007 looks down at his empty glass and weighs its heft. He looks up to find 004 watching him with eyes as green as hemlock and a hand creeping towards the Glock on his desk. The pain of his wounds discounted, the annoyance he was purging with alcohol sizzling into wintry focus, Bond pivots on his foot so he’s perpendicular with the door and listens intently.

There. Footsteps. But more importantly, footsteps attempting to be silent.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Q, still typing, albeit now with a Glock close by his hand. 004 holds up his left hand before aiming his pointer finger and thumb like a gun - five armed men - and then shows a closed fist - ten seconds. With his right hand, Q shuts his laptop screen and places it in the sole drawer the table has and then grabs the Glock, holding it with an ease that tells 007 that 004 is right-handed or ambidextrous.

Silent as the grave, Q slips out of his seat and into a deceptively casual stance in front of his desk, about two metres behind Bond. He holds up his hand, palm forward - five seconds. 004’s face is unreadable, down to the small, dark smile on his lips, but 007 can almost recognise the ice blade chill of his gaze.

It’s almost somewhat respectable for a Double-Oh.

Clodius has gone conspicuously silent now that it’s become clear that he’s sandwiched between two killers. 007 considers him for but a second before dismissing him; he’s important only for the information he might be able to offer. In the long term, he’s just a plankton in the sea, and Bond’s got bigger fish to fry.

Speaking of. Q raises his pointer finger. One second.

Perfectly calm, Bond turns his full attention towards the door, where he can see shadows stretching into the room from underneath the crack. He didn’t turn on the entryway light when he came in, and Q never bothered; the only light source in this room is the lamp on Q’s desk and the moonlight ghosting through the curtains.

Bond’s had no problem with manoeuvering in the dim light. His night vision is excellent. They frankly didn’t care about Clodius’ comfort levels; psychological intimidation was just a handy bonus. But it’s bright outside with the fluorescent overhead lighting, and Bond looks directly at the sliver of light to prepare himself.

There are two shadows. One is at the door, the other is beside it.

Nonetheless, when Q lets his hand drop - zero - he’s still momentarily blinded as the door unlocks with a click and is kicked open with a crash. Not that it stops him. Vision compromised or not, Bond is already moving.

His empty glass arcs through the air. It smashes into the forehead of the man in the front - black-haired, built for upper-body strength, gun in the process of being raised - and he veers back with a shout, colliding into the front of the man who’s behind him.

Yakuza. They probably somehow got wind of where Clodius was meant to be tonight, and Bond very much doubts the hotel staff have the nerves to stand up to the wrong end of a gun. They got the room number and the room card from the front desk most likely.

All of this goes through 007’s head in a heartbeat. “Down!” comes the command behind him, and he ducks. Two bullets fly over his head and slam into the head and then throat of the front man. He’s dead instantly, but Bond doesn’t exactly have time to celebrate before, with an outraged roar, the man who was held up pushes his comrade’s corpse at 007 and rushes in.

From the looks of it, the second thug ducked on reflex before the exiting bullet could hit him - it’s now embedded in a hotel wall somewhere no doubt - but his face is splattered with his dead partner’s blood like a villain in a horror movie.

Startled, Bond grunts and stumbles back half a step as fifteen some stone fall on him. He thrusts the corpse onto the ground, but by then, the other man’s already on him. 007 has just a moment to catalogue his new opponent - short beard, fish tattoos, and with a gun aimed at his chest - before turning his body to the side to knock the man’s right wrist to the left to avoid a nasty new hole in his lungs.

The shot hits the wall. Bond takes the chance to punch him in the face.

The familiar crunch of a broken nose meets his fist. Shouting, his opponent’s head snaps back even as he leans forward instinctively, eyes watering. One of his friends takes the opportunity to shove him onto Bond and then throw a punch right at 007’s jaw while he’s dealing with the sudden increase in weight. The back of Bond’s head hits the wall with a harsh thud as he chucks the man with the broken nose to the floor, and 007 groans, dazed for a brief second.

Christ, these guys are worse at camaraderie than he is, and that’s saying something.

Before 007 can recover, he’s punched into the wall again, and another gunshot goes off. Bond looks around automatically, but the shot isn’t from the man most likely giving him a concussion. He probably regrets that as he screams, the bullet burying itself in his shoulder. The gun drops from his fingers to clatter to the floor.

_Q._

Gritting his teeth, Bond shoves himself from the wall to kick him in the side of the knee and then punch him in the solar plexus when he collapses forward, effectively knocking the breath out of him. Before 007 can break his neck, the man whose nose he broke finally gets it together enough to let out an enraged scream and fling himself onto Bond’s back.

The momentum carries all three of them forward and breaks down the bathroom door. Bond lands on top of one thug, the other on top of him, and curses sharply as the two other men who were waiting outside invade the main part of the suite.

* * *

Q throws himself behind the cover of the bed as the two men shoot bullets into the desk. He pats himself on the back for figuring out how to make his laptop bulletproof months back. The man coming at him from the right is heavy-set and built at more than two and a half metres tall; the one on the left is shorter, heavier, and overall looks meaner with his heavy scowl and piercings.

Now that Bond isn’t blocking his line of fire with his damnable bulk, Q stops holding back. He fires two shots before the taller yakuza manages to take cover behind the desk. His shorter companion decides to duck behind Clodius, who is right smack in the middle of the room, and smirks at Q like he knows that 004 wouldn’t dare.

Clodius looks at Q with wide eyes and a pale face, sweat dripping down his temples, and makes a frightened, protesting noise. “Tch,” Q mutters under his breath, coldly weighing up Clodius’ potential usefulness against the risk posed by the yakuza in that position.

He stalls by shooting at the taller man thrice before running out of bullets. Ugh. Q reaches into his left pocket, beyond cross that he left his taser in his other pair of trousers, to pull out a flash bomb that he hurls into the centre of the room. Two seconds.

One. Q closes his eyes and ejects his current magazine. Two. The flare of bright light is a white wash of colour even behind his closed eyelids. While the idiots are cursing in Japanese, Q reloads and opens his eyes. He has to blink some spots from his vision, but otherwise, he’s fine.

Although he begins shooting again, 004 coolly notes that it’s not doing much good. The table is surprisingly sturdy, and from where Q is kneeling, he can’t get a shot off to the other yakuza without hitting Clodius. What’s worse is that the yakuza is slowly moving closer by pushing Clodius’ chair across the floor, and sooner or later -

A bullet comes to a stop three centimetres away from 004’s left knee.

 _Fuck this_ , Q decides and transitions swiftly from kneeling to raising himself up on one knee, gun rock steady in his hand. He fires once, twice, thrice, and Clodius shrieks through his gag as the man hiding behind him howls.

The first shot glanced past Clodius’ side to hit the yakuza in the chest. The second shot missed. The third shot hit the yakuza in the right foot, revealed and left vulnerable when he stumbled backwards from being shot the first time.

At the sight of his partner being wounded, the taller man lunges across the room and over the bed with an infuriated cry. He hits Q square in the chest, and they both go down. 004’s trained to hold onto his gun, but even the best training in the world tends to falter when an elbow is dug mercilessly into his brachialis.

The Glock goes spinning, and it quickly becomes a brawl between them as to who has control and possession of the remaining gun. Q throws a jab into his enemy’s larynx and suffers a blow to his shoulder and ribs before deftly drawing his knife from his shoe and stabbing his attacker in the carotid artery.

The yakuza grunts and flails about some more like a dying fish thrashing on a hook. 004 easily rides these futile struggles out, however, although the blood is soaking into his trousers. Before he can finish the job, he’s hit by above with the fucking telephone book of all things and thrown off of the dying man.

The man he shot before looms over him with an ugly snarl and blood on his lips, but he’s not dead yet, apparently. He whacks Q on the shoulders, the back of his skull, and then his lower back a few more times with his book while 004’s still on the ground, only to yell when Q manages to hook his ankle around his and yank him down as well.

While the short yakuza is preoccupied, Q gets to his feet. The other one is dead, he notes, and kicks his remaining opponent in the ribs. He can hear Bond making a terrible ruckus in the bathroom, so 007’s still alive at least. His enemy gropes around, snarling curses in Japanese, and manages to grab the gun that his comrade used.

“Shit,” Q says and jumps over the bed. He ducks down just in time for the bullet to miss his head and hit Clodius in the forehead instead. And there goes their contact, 004 thinks in disgust. Q throws first the nearest pillow at hand at the yakuza and then the table lamp and the phone itself. The man dodges or endures each one but doesn’t have the attention span to predict Q leaping over the bed and grabbing 007’s Walther along the way.

As soon as he gets his hands on it, he can tell by the balance that it’s empty. Plan C then.

With the element of surprise, 004 pistol whips him and then smashes the gun on the yakuza’s hand brutally, earning a holler and a dropped gun. He kicks the man in the chest next but has to dodge out of the way of a sloppy right hook and ends up taking a headbutt to the mouth. While he’s distracted, the man bangs his hand against the bedframe until he drops the gun.

From the iron in his mouth and the liquid dripping to his chin, Q now has a split lip. The wetness on his fingers probably speaks to several cuts as well. Lovely. At least nothing’s broken.

Gritting his teeth, 004 pulls away to duck under another punch, and they exchange a short bout of attacks and blocks. This isn’t getting anywhere, he thinks in-between twisting the man’s right wrist and being kicked in the side. Q’s thrown to the left, knocking over the floor lamp, but he twists with the movement and grabs onto the silver ring in the man’s ear.

With the force of 004’s weight and momentum, this tears the earring right off. The yakuza roars, stumbling back, ear bleeding, and Q regains his footing to kick him in the chest. While his opponent lurches, 004 grabs him by his brown coat, plants his feet, and swings him into the balcony door.

The man’s head impacts with the glass with a crack. Q smashes his skull into the glass twice more and then promptly breaks a finger and lets him take a step back, whimpering, while Q unlocks the door and shoves it open. Instantly, the rain, urged on by the wind, starts soaking the front of his already blood-stained shirt.

“What - ” is all the yakuza has the time to get out, bleeding from his ear, shallow cuts on his face, and wavering like a drunk, before 004 crushes the hand with the broken finger in his own and takes a firm hold of his collar. He squeals like a pig.

Q pivots, sending him flying onto the balcony, and follows him out. The relentless rain soaks him at once, but 004 ignores it to snatch the thug’s left arm, twist it up behind his back, and hold him against the cold metal railing with his hand on his nape.

“How did you find us?” Q demands in Japanese over the pitter-patter of the rain, the low rumbling of the thunder.

The man says nothing but makes a pained sound, so 004 draws him back to slam him onto the uncaring metal again, to a rough shout that he ignores. _“How?”_

“The foreigner!” the yakuza cries, twisting about in Q’s hold without any chance of escape. “He said - he said - on the phone - William Adams - ”

004’s heard enough. With an almighty heave, he shoves the man over the rail and then kicks him down. The yakuza screams as he falls, but Q doesn’t listen.

Q stands in place for another second, panting and relishing the hard thud of his heart, the cooling sensation of the rain. Adrenaline is calling, promising a spectacular fall of his own soon, but he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, chest heaving, to listen to the soothing sound of the rain. His aches haven’t started to wake up yet, but they will soon.

He’s still alive.

He’s still _alive._

A discordant slap of flesh against hard surface jolts him out of it. 004’s eyes fly open. Shit. He forgot Bond.

Spinning on his heel, Q runs for the bathroom, stepping over the corpse of the taller yakuza without flinching. The bathroom is a fucking mess. Blood is everywhere: on the walls, on the floor, on the mirror. One man is slumped on the edge of the bathtub, bleeding out from several gunshot wounds, and it only takes Q a breath to pin him as dead and out for the count.

Bond is still grappling with another enemy. They both look like bloody wrecks, quite literally. 007 is bleeding from the back of his head, his mouth, and a nasty cut on his collarbone. His shoulder wound has reopened, and the man he’s fighting doesn’t look much better. Bond’s got him pressed up against the sink but doesn’t have quite enough of the upper hand to deal a final blow.

004 takes this all in in the span of a heartbeat and makes a plan just as fast. He slips a hand into his pocket, where his phone is still patiently waiting, as bulletproof as his laptop, and is fiercely smug that he had the foresight to ask his tailor to make it difficult for items in his pockets to fall out.

“Keep him there!” Q orders sharply and presses three buttons - 529 - and holds down the last button for an extra three seconds.

Bond scowls rather bloodily, most likely wanting to know what 004 is doing but knowing better than to divert attention while he’s in a fight for his life. He does, however, successfully hold his opponent against the sink, despite his wild struggles, and that’s all Q needs.

The bomb 004 hid under the sink goes off with a bang. With a human barrier between him and the explosive, Bond is fine. His opponent is not.

Gasping for air, 007 steps back and lets the smoking yakuza fall to the ground along with his friend. Bond leans against the far wall, and Q does the same against the doorway. There’s a brief point in time in which the only sounds are their gasps and the continued rain.

Fuck, Q thinks fuzzily.

“Clodius?” Bond questions at last.

“Dead.”

Bond grunts and staggers to the sink to splash some water on his face. “Hotel security?”

“I cut off all communication, stopped the elevators, and sent them a false alert that there’s trouble on the 58th floor. We’ve got some time.” Q blinks slowly, feeling his adrenaline levels start to plunge. He handles it with the ease of experience and pushes off the doorway to start doing damage control on his laptop.

While he’s cursorily wiping the blood off of his hands before it can get on his keyboard with a napkin, a thought suddenly occurs to him. Q laughs.

Bond pokes his head out of the bathroom, face devoid of blood although red is still visible in his spiked-up hair and he clearly hasn’t gotten started with the liquid adhesive yet. “What?”

“Seville must not be that big, after all,” Q says, waking up his laptop with a tap of his fingers. He ignores the blood stains he’s probably getting on the chair. “Or, at least, you’d better hope it’s not, because that’s the only lead we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* It's still Christmas! At least in my part of the world. So Happy Holidays everyone! We really appreciate your patience and support!
> 
> Talk to us on tumblr at [opalescentgold](https://opalescentgold.tumblr.com/) and [faerieoftara](https://faerieoftara.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Thanks as always to the team of betas who helped make this chapter coherent and lovely. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are most welcome as a late Christmas gift. <3


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